


The Alias AU Ficlets

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Ancient Rome, Cyberpunk, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Pastiche, Season 5 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 22,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I got my AU Bingo card, I may have gone a little nuts with Alias -- IMHO, the most fun fandom to write AUs for. So each ficlet is a different universe (with the exception of the Roman trio of ficlets.) Chapter headings tell you which way reality got bent this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "So Say We All" -- the BSG one

Commander Bristow looked out over the Viper pilots, weighing each of them in turn. Oracle was a good kid – too new, only promoted to fighter pilot because of the catastrophic situation they found themselves in, but proving herself daily. Houdini never stopped cracking wise, which was annoying as hell; thank God he was good. Outrigger was the steadiest among them, and never alluded to his seniority, though by rights he ought to have been a commander alongside Jack by now. Fate had a different plan for him, for all of them. Merlin needed to be in the command center, not out in a Viper getting shot at by Cylons, but so far he’d done double duty with a smile on his face. Shotgun got the hell on Jack’s nerves, for no good reason except his relationship with Phoenix.

Phoenix, of course, was the best of them. Jack knew this to be objective, verifiable fact, wholly independent of the fact that she was his daughter.

“Are we dismissed, Commander Bristow?” His daughter’s voice was slightly sharp, not beyond the line of protocol, but still – something she wouldn’t have pulled on anyone else. Then again, he wouldn’t have lost his train of thought and kept good pilots waiting considering the fate of any other person.

“Dismissed,” he said, and instantly they broke up, laughing and talking. Dog tags jangled as Oracle loped toward Merlin, probably to talk about the holovids they were reconstructing from data fragments. Shotgun, of course, was instantly at Phoenix’s side, the two of them trying to feign only casual pleasure. Were they fooling anyone? Not him.

“You watch them like a hawk,” said the president.

Jack turned to see President Derevko standing next to him, only a few paces away. “You’re as quiet as a cat,” he said.

“Hello to you too.” She tucked a lock of her burnished hair behind one ear as she watched Phoenix walk away with Shotgun. “They seem happy.”

“Seem,” he replied, the repetition meant to indicate doubt.

“I don’t trust him.” That startled Jack, who disliked Shotgun’s influence on his daughter but had no reason to doubt his loyalty. “Watch them, Jack.”

“I always do.”

“I know.” Her smile might almost have been friendly. Many in the Fleet, who believed that Commander Bristow and President Derevko were forever at odds, would have been startled by that smile. A minority, who believed that their public sparring was merely cover for an affair, would have felt vindicated by it. The number of people who knew that she had, in another life, been his wife – that she was in fact Phoenix’s mother – could be counted on one hand, and thus far, did not include Phoenix herself.

The president’s hand rested briefly on his arm before she turned and left without another word. She liked to keep him guessing.

Jack made his way back to the CIC, where Lieutenant Calfo was hard at work, but not so caught up in it that she couldn’t spare him a smile. Everyone else acknowledged him only officially – except, of course, the Fleet’s eccentric, and the greatest scientist among them, Arvin Sloane. As usual, Sloane stared into the distance, as if at a point only he could see, or as if listening to a voice only he could hear. The inevitable tics of genius, Jack supposed. “Sloane?” he said. “Do you have something to report?”

“Oh. Yes.” Sloane stirred himself. “I’ve made some progress on the Cylon detection grid. It’s not quite ready yet, but tomorrow, perhaps – ”

As if it would require some special scheduling for Jack to be available for this, the single most important priority they had besides staying one step ahead of the Cylon armada. “At any hour. Just let us know.”

“Of course. I ought to have – of course.” Sloane wandered out. Jack sighed, half in exasperation, half in amusement, until a warm cup of tea was placed into his hand.

“You’re bucking for a commendation, lieutenant,” he said, as he began to sip his drink.

“You bet your life, sir,” Lieutenant Calfo said. She was already back at work.

**

As Sloane walked away, Nadia said to him, “He’s starting to suspect you.”

“He wouldn’t if you’d leave me alone.”

“The daughter you left behind on Aerilon? The one who had only just found you on Caprica in the months before the planet’s destruction? Do you really want me to go so soon? To go forever?”

“You aren’t my daughter. You’re – a dream. An illusion.”

“There’s more truth in dreams than you know,” Nadia said, and then she was gone, as if she had never been.

And yet Sloane already knew he had to follow her, forever, no matter where she led.


	2. "The Heart of the Machine" - the cyperpunk one

Perhaps two hundred people on Earth could, by force of will, deactivate their psi-links. Jack Bristow was one of them. This had given him more grief than opportunity, to date, but tonight, he intended to use that ability to save his daughter.

He caught the tram as usual, link still active. The boredom of the commute was a good time to lull his thoughts into total blandness, then to switch off the link. He felt the break the in the same incalculable way that silence can sometimes become deafening. His mind was not wholly his own; then it was. Jack blinked, taking in the tram car anew. It was the same scene – the skyscrapers whizzing past as they flew their course, crowds of people in garments rendered similarly gray and shapeless by the afternoon’s rain. And yet this perception was valuable, because it wasn’t filtered through MILO. It was Jack’s alone. Most people could never even comprehend what that meant.

He took the exit nearest the Keep and walked through the city, ignoring the rain even as it ran down his face and spattered his dark coat. Although Jack walked against the flow of foot traffic, toward an area very few were authorized to enter, nobody paid him any attention. They assumed that MILO knew, and if Jack’s actions were a problem, MILO would stop him.

Tonight, though, Jack was going to stop MILO.

The security gate of the Keep was set to answer to the pattern of very few individuals. Jack Bristow was not one of them. However, Arvin Sloane was, and Jack had stolen his bioshield codes long ago, should this day ever become necessary. If Sloane was already inside, then this wouldn’t work, and Jack would be caught … but that seemed unlikely. This was the night when the nouveau Beaujolais was being presented. Like Sloane would ever miss that.

He walked straight through the gate and kept going. He tried to imagine his daughter doing this and failed. Hopefully she would never have to see the twisted, pulsing gut of wires that formed the center of their world. It was like looking at the gelatinous folds of an exposed human brain: wondrous and yet repulsive, and a reminder of the fragility, the futility, of all life.

A sign overhead read MATRICES INDEX: LONGFORM OPERATIONS. Nobody had used the full name in a very long time.

Jack thought the last time he had heard it was when he was first brought here upon his recruitment. They believed, then, that he might be the Chosen One – the first human being capable of interfacing directly with MILO. Capable of influencing it, perhaps even controlling it. The tests and drills had not stopped until every bit of his life was gone, until he was nothing but a gray automaton, a cog in the machine of authority. He’d told himself he didn’t care, because he had his wife – another potential Chosen One, met in the testing bays, the one shred of humanity he’d known. Their mutual failure with MILO was their ticket to release, and he told himself it was all the freedom he’d ever need.

But then they had Sydney – and the daughter of two potentials had turned out to be the Chosen One after all.

He would not let them bring his daughter in here. He would not let them put her into the heart of MILO, to be absorbed by the machine. Even if something of her spirit and will lived on, her individual life would not, and that – that could not happen.

Time for MILO to die.

Yet as he walked deeper into the heart of the machine, he realized he wasn’t alone.

Irina stood there, waiting for him. Her silvery gown looked more appropriate for a dinner party or formal ball – or, he thought with a pang, for a celebration of this year’s nouveau Beaujolais. She remained still, her eyes glinting slightly in the night.

“Which version are you?” Jack asked. “One of the gentle models? Or one of the ones who pretends to be gentle?”

“You always talk as if my Splicing were my fault.”

Which it wasn’t, of course. Irina’s attempted rebellion had brought down punishment, but she was too knowledgeable about MILO to be allowed to die. So they Spliced her, creating dozens of clones, each of which carried only one facet of her personality. Jack had been fool enough to live with the sweetest one for months without realizing the change … until she’d killed herself. Maybe because he hadn’t noticed. Maybe because this life was too difficult without her fire to sustain her.

In the years since, he’d faced vengeful Irinas. Weeping Irinas. Concerned mothers. Homicidal maniacs. She’d taken him to bed. She’d beaten him up. Jack never knew what he was going to get.

This one’s eyes brimmed with tears, which meant she was probably one of the more sympathetic ones. Or one of the more deceptive ones. He intended to err on the side of caution.

His hand slipped down to the icepick he’d hidden in his jacket pocket.

“They’re bringing Sydney in tomorrow,” Irina said.

“Did you come here to stop it?”

“You did.” Her eyes searched his face – no matter which version of Irina he dealt with, she always had the ability to make him believe she saw right through him. “I came here to stop you.”

Jack’s hand tightened around the hilt of the icepick. “You’d feed our daughter to this thing?”

“I would have her destroy it. And she can, Jack. She can. She will bring the greatest power unto utter desolation.”

How the old indoctrination still echoes within them both. How badly he wants to believe.

Irina’s hands cup his face, and he sees in her eyes a purity of purpose that has always eluded him. Or perhaps it’s zealotry. Jack’s never been good at telling the difference. She whispers, “Try to believe, Jack. Try to have faith. In her. In us.”

He stabs the icepick through her heart. She dies so quickly that there’s almost no blood.

Irina slumps to the ground so that her silver dress might be a puddle in moonlight. The sight cuts him to the quick – he’s stabbed himself as deeply as her, in a way – but he reminds himself, _There are others._

Now to kill MILO, if he can.


	3. "The Lab" -- the military one

Although it has a lengthy, official name that appears on those few documents labeled TOP SECRET, it is known only as “the Lab.” Everyone within is military, rank and file, though most of them have never undergone more than the most basic soldierly training and orientation.

No, the Lab’s staff are recruited out of graduate schools and private research institutes. Some of them begin as idealists. The Lab takes care of that quickly enough. Some of them believe they’ll do this for a while and then go back to their universities, or into industry. Eventually they all realize that it’s not as easy to walk away from a top-secret military institution; “you know too much” is more than a phrase.

But there are those who absolutely relish the idea of developing newer, more effective ways of killing people. Jack Bristow wouldn’t say he “relishes” the idea, exactly, but he has long since accepted that this is what he’s good at.

Irina Derevko, however – she relishes the hell out of it.

He’s in charge of “Personal Defense.” She’s in charge of “Experimental Projects.” They fight for funding. They fight for influence. He thinks her stuff is one step away from science fiction at best, witch doctor nonsense at worst. She thinks he’s more interested in creating the world’s best turtle shell than giving their soldiers a competitive edge. As if any competitive edge were more important to her than her own.

They are known throughout the lab as enemies, as the most bitter rivals.

Which makes it so much easier to get away with what happens after hours.

It’s those smoked glass dividers between the offices, Jack thinks. There’s something about them – hard and cold, yet diffuse with light; translucent in a way that reveals some things and hides others. He thinks they remind him of her. She says they remind her of him.

Either way, it’s enormously satisfying to back her against them and frame her body with his own.

She kisses like she fights – dirty. Jack has no defenses against the hot slicing pain of her fingernails against his back. She cannot fend off his teeth sinking into the soft flesh between her shoulder and neck, or at any rate, she doesn’t try.

They usually don’t even bother getting undressed. Jack no longer remembers a day when he didn’t find a white lab coat sexy. Once Irina walked into his office after hours wearing that white lab coat, square-rimmed glasses and black spiked high heels, and nothing else. He took her on the desk that time.

She’s splayed herself out for him on the floor; he’s bent to his knees to service her in the heart of a transport prototype, electronics and steel a glittering shield around her ecstasy. Sometimes, afterward, Irina lets him hold her; once or twice, she’s even held him. Jack’s never sure what to make of that. Certainly they never talk about it.

The next day, they always meet in the lab, once again military, once again enemies. It’s the coldest war of all. And Jack wouldn’t have it any other way.


	4. "Resurrection" - the vampire one

Sydney sat in a safe house in Hong Kong, her head between her hands. Her body felt cold, foreign to her; her mind was awhirl with confusion and conjecture.

The last thing she remembered was the Francie who wasn’t Francie – the one who didn’t even taste food the same way Francie did – coming at her. Firing her gun. Francie falling. Dead? Not dead? That part didn’t make sense. All Sydney recalled after that was pain and blood, so much blood … then awakening in a Hong Kong alleyway.

A creak at the door made her startle, but then relief flooded through her as she saw Vaughn standing there.

“Vaughn!” She flung herself into his arms; he embraced her in return, but … slowly. It didn’t matter. He smelled so good. Felt so good. Quickly she pressed her lips to the pulse at his throat, one quick kiss, not nearly enough. “What’s going on? I don’t remember anything – except Francie, that wasn’t Francie, and oh, my God. Will. Is Will alive?”

“Syd. Take it easy. Sit down.” Vaughn took a chair himself, almost as if he had to sit before he could fall. “It’s really you.”

“Of course it’s me. What happened?” Sydney raked one hand through her hair. It was as if seeing Vaughn again had snapped her back to herself; she was newly aware of how eagerly she wanted to touch him, the subtle scents in the room, even her acute hunger. How long had it been since she’d eaten? No knowing.

“Your home – the aftermath of the fight – it was almost destroyed.” Vaughn’s eyes were wide, even wary. “When we searched, we found Will … he’s okay, by the way …”

“Thank God.” Sydney could taste that one kiss she’d pressed against Vaughn’s neck. She needed more of that, for sure. “And Francie?”

Vaughn didn’t answer that. He just stared, and for the first time, she realized that this wasn’t the joyous reunion for him that it was for her.

Slowly, she said, “What’s wrong?”

“Syd – ”

He turned his head to the side, and she could see the tension in him as he looked away from her: the working of his jaw, the taut length of his neck.

“Sydney, we found you in the house.”

“What do you mean?” Vaughn wouldn’t meet her eyes. Sydney kept staring at his neck.

“We found your body. Your dead body. It was you – no doubt, no question – we ran every test – except – ”

She was so hungry, so damned hungry, that she almost couldn’t focus on what he was saying. But then, what he was saying made no sense. “Wait. You can’t have found my body. I’m here. I’m alive.”

Vaughn slowly shook his head. “You’re here, Syd. But they looked you over when you came in, and – you’re not alive.”

He wasn’t Vaughn to her then. He stopped being a person at all. The only thing Sydney could hear was his heartbeat – so loud, louder than his confused wondering as to what Rambaldi might have done to her – and his throat was exposed, laid open, and she didn’t even know she’d tackled him until she sank her fangs into his flesh.

**

She managed to stop before she killed Vaughn: Enough of her mind returned for that. But Sydney ran out into the streets of Hong Kong again with tears on her cheeks, sickened by what she’d done, what she had become.

Who had done this to her? Francie? She had seemed so strange the past few months, and even Will had remarked on how she fixed food the same as ever but didn’t seem to eat a thing. A joke, they’d thought: Instead, it had been a clue.

Somebody was behind all this, though. Somebody had to have had the foresight to steal her body from its grave and bring her here. Somebody who wanted this for her, somebody Sydney intended to destroy the first chance she got ---

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Sydney whirled to see her mother standing behind her.

Irina said, “Don’t be afraid.”

“I should say that to you.” Sydney wondered what should scare her any longer. She was already dead, condemned to be a monster; it didn’t get any worse than this. “Did you do this to me?”

“No. But I learned it had been done. And I knew I had a chance to help you.” Irina cocked her head, fixing her daughter in a stare that continued to be both unearthly and unsettling. “I’m protected, by the way. There are ways the people you love can protect themselves. I’ll teach you.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Sydney protested. If her mother knew anything about this, it suggested she’d known too much. And couldn’t she have mentioned, during all those months of interrogations, that, _oh, by the way, vampires are real_? That would have been good information to have.

Irina’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll come with me to rescue your father.”

“What – what happened to Dad?”

“He also learned what had been done to you. He made the mistake of trying to tell the wrong people. They now have him captive in a top-security mental hospital, under the belief that your death has driven him insane.”

Her father would hate that. He would be dying in there by degrees. There was no way Sydney intended to let that continue.

Her eyes met her mother’s, and Irina smiled. “I told you that you’d be coming with me. And take heart, Sydney. There can be life after death. I have it on good authority.”

Sydney knew she’d only find out what that meant by joining her mother – and accepting her fate.


	5. "The Cradle" -- the kidfic one

Jack had never understood Arvin’s fascination with Rambaldi artifacts – for many reasons, but among them was the fact that nobody ever seemed to understand precisely what one of the devices did until it was activated. What if the machine in question did something you didn’t want it to do?

Such as this.

“Daddy?” Sydney smiled up at him from the end of the conference table. Her little hands drummed against the brushed metal surface. “May I have a sandwich?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Jack could smile back at her. His daughter was, by far, the least troubling of … those affected.

“What about me?” said Vaughn. He had magic marker stains all over his cheeks and fingers; no doubt the briefing room walls had been defaced again. “I want a sandwich too!”

“Me too!” Weiss called from his place on the floor, where he was busily using highlighters to color in the margins of a report on black market activity in Malaysia. “Peanut butter and jelly for me.”

Nadia, who sat in the chair next to Jack, watching him with wide, black unwavering eyes, whispered, “I just want an apple.”

Jack studied the faces of the APO agents around him – all of whom had been competent, professional adults (in Vaughn’s case, more or less) until the latest Rambaldi device was activated. Now, they were four year olds: physically and mentally. Although they seemed to remember one another, the memories were vague, and not nearly as immediate as their desires for Legos, Hostess cupcakes and someone to help them remove their clothes when they went potty.

He had designated an outside agent for this last task, as he would have to look these people in the face again as adults someday. He hoped.

“Sydney, why don’t you tell Agent Takahara to make you all some sandwiches?” Jack said, as he opened his briefcase, took out his own apple for lunchtime and gave it to a beaming Nadia instead. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

His daughter nodded as she skipped off toward the long-suffering Agent Takahara. Satisfied that the general chaos was controlled … at least for the moment … Jack headed down the hallway toward the chamber that contained this latest, greatest nuisance of Milo Rambaldi’s making: The Cradle.

As he walked down the corridor, however, he heard a voice shout, “Uhoh!”

Jack, reflexes honed after three days of this, ducked just in time to avoid being struck by a bizarre projectile made of crumpled paper, file folders and strategically placed staples. He looked into Marshall’s lab to see a newly constructed catapult with many rubber bands … and, sitting behind it silently and sheepishly, the four-year-old versions of Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman.

“I’m sorry,” Marshall said, so sincerely that it was startling when he grinned. “But it was _cool_!”

“Really cool!” Dixon agreed, rocking back and forth as he took his tiny feet in his hands.

Jack sighed. “Be careful.”

Without further incident, he reached the room where the Rambaldi artifact was kept. Jack wasn’t surprised to see that he wasn’t alone.

“It’s shiny,” said Arvin. He sat on the floor, staring up at the brass-and-amber contraption on its pedestal. How strange it was, to see this small, guileless child and yet recognize Sloane in both body and soul. Perhaps it was the eager glow in his eyes.

“Yes,” Jack said. “It is. What do you think of it?”

“I think it must be magic.” Arvin’s voice was very sure, but a note of doubt crept in as he said, “Do you think it’s magic too?”

Head aching, Jack said, “I think I’m very glad I wasn’t around when it was turned on.”


	6. "Ascended" -- the gods and goddesses one

Jack stared into Sloane’s eyes as he pressed the detonator.

What followed was not pain, exactly – akin to it, but too quick to really comprehend, or at least he soon lost the capability of comprehending it. He was a man; he was a mess of blood and bone and brain; he was not. It was as simple as that.

Until he opened his eyes again.

For one split second, he knew he should not have had eyes any longer – or a head, or awareness – but then the knowledge of death Jack had so briefly possessed faded, leaving behind only confusion. Slowly he pushed himself into a seated position; he seemed to be in some kind of milky, cloudy area with a few structures, distant and ethereal. White was the dominant color, save for the dark, brilliantly starry sky. He was uninjured, without pain, in fact thinner and stronger than he had been in many years.

The obvious conclusion was that he was in heaven. However, the thought of going to heaven was so far from obvious to Jack that he sat there for some time, attempting to think of other alternatives. None readily sprang to mind.

“Hello,” Nadia said.

Jack jumped slightly, too startled to speak. She didn’t seem to expect an immediate response; she simply stood there in a pale pink gown, waiting for him to come to terms with what he saw.

Looking down, he saw that he was wearing something … robe-like, which was gray rather than pink. It wasn’t a relief, exactly, but as close as he could get to it at the moment.

He finally managed: “This is the afterlife.”

“It’s the realm of the gods. Almost the same thing, but not quite.” Nadia’s smile was as warm and brilliant as it had always been – even more, perhaps.

Then he stopped thinking about her smile (always a distraction, for him) and started thinking about what she’d just said. “Why am I in the realm of the gods?”

“Because I brought you here.”

Jack carefully weighed the logical next question. “Why are you in the realm of the gods?”

“Because I’m a goddess.” Nadia studied his face for a moment. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jack said, because if there was any chance whatsoever that he was talking to some kind of supreme or supernatural being, however deceitful, he intended to err on the side of caution.

“You don’t. You shouldn’t lie to the gods, Jack. We always know.” Her cheeks dimpled. “It’s all right. If you believed me right away, I don’t think I’d believe it’s really you. Even though I raised you here myself.”

Honesty could serve a purpose here, it seemed. So he rose to his feet and examined her, and their surroundings, more closely.

Now that he took a better look at things, Jack took in the details more closely: temples with columns, statues on pedestals, and a sky with stars somehow closer than before, which suggested the constellations very strongly in some way. He thought he could have traced Orion, Cassiopeia, Gemini, all of them. There was something distinctly Greco-Roman about the experience.

“That’s about right,” Nadia said. She didn’t seem to need him to speak in order to hear him. That was disconcerting. “The Greeks got as close as anyone to understanding the true nature of the universe. Since then, it’s all been downhill.”

Jack noticed that he didn’t have a heartbeat. This more than anything else convinced him that Nadia’s words were true, at least in essence. He decided to proceed accordingly. “Are you the same Nadia I knew, or did you just choose to look like her?”

“It’s me, Jack.” She touched his shoulder – just for a moment, but it felt like her, somehow. Not that he knew much about what it felt like to be touched by Nadia, though not for lack of wondering. “I wasn’t a goddess yet when you knew me. Dad realized it was possible, but he never understood that even divinity has its limits.”

“Wait. Your father understood that you were – ”

“Rambaldi said it could be.” No other explanation was necessary. “Though most of the time Dad thought that was a metaphor, once in a while, he allowed himself to hope for the truth.”

Sloane’s superiority complex would have been satisfied no end by the thought of having fathered a goddess. This was becoming more credible all the time. “He must have believed that your death ended that possibility.”

“Instead it was the moment that made the prophecy come true. I died a sacrifice to his piety, misplaced as it was.” Nadia sighed. “That’ll do it.”

“Was that what it was all about, in the end? Not just immortality, but divinity?”

“He was closer than he ever knew.” A soft breeze ruffled her hair, made the hem of her simple pink gown flutter. Jack noticed these things, and also the absence of the old guilt that always prevented him from noticing her too much, for too long. “The strain of it runs in my family. You must have sensed, at times, that my mother was … almost more than mortal.”

Jack tried to envision the divine realm Irina would rule over, and failed. And yet Nadia’s explanation rang true for him. “Is she here?”

“Not this time. She’ll be reborn. She has a few cycles to live through before she’ll find peace. She will, though. I know these things, now.” The merriment in her eyes told him that Nadia could find humor in predestination; if anyone had a right, she did.

“Sydney – Isabelle – ”

“May yet join us, in the fullness of time. They have the potential. You must have sensed that too.”

He nodded. Alone of the things he'd learned in the past few minutes, that didn't surprise him at all. Contemplating Sydney and Isabelle's ascent into greater power, greater invulnerability, gave him more peace than anything else had since the explosion – even more than his own sort of resurrection.

“Resurrection,” Nadia repeated. “You can have that, if you wish.”

Jack stared at her. “You could – return me to life?”

“I can. It would be hard to explain, but then, you’d have to do that, not me.” She grinned for a moment, but quickly became more serious. “Before you decide, though, you should know – if you want to help me protect Sydney from here, you can do that, too. You’re not a god, not in the sense that I’m a goddess, but I can share this realm and these powers with you. No mortal limits would stand in your way.”

That had a certain appeal. He thought back to his life and asked himself if he had anything to go on for in a world without Irina, without Nadia, even without Arvin, besides taking care of Sydney and Isabelle. In truth, he didn’t. Jack had chosen to live that way and did not regret his choice. So if he could care for her better here, even manipulate reality itself to ensure that his daughter and granddaughter had long, happy lives – that choice was even simpler.

Sydney would mourn him; he knew that. But mourning was inevitable when a child outlived a parent, and that was how it should be. Jack thought back on his death, decided it was a good one, and looked again at Nadia. By now he understood that she knew his decision without his saying a word.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I always hoped we’d get to know each other better.”

So simple, and yet it meant so much. Without the old guilt in the way, Jack found he liked the idea of getting to know Nadia quite a lot. Maybe this wasn’t heaven, but it was closer than he deserved.


	7. "Warrior Sisters" - the Sword and Sorcery one

“The Forge lies not far ahead,” said Xon, leaning on his staff as they gazed across the Silent Valley. “As I promised, I will take you both there – but once again, I beg you, reconsider.”

Ney swept her brown hair away from her face, behind one ear. All this time, she and her sister had sought the Forge; she would give way to no doubts now that they had reached their goal. Yet she also could not deny the uneasiness in the pit of her belly. “What say you, Dia?”

“I say we go onward.” Dia’s black eyes betrayed more concern than her smile. “I’m afraid of what lies ahead – but more afraid of turning back, and never knowing what has become of our mother.”

“Knowing the future spawns madness,” Xon protested. Though he had been but their guide when they hired him many months ago, when they began their arduous trek across the valley, he was by now a friend – and perhaps a truer father than either of them had known before. “Neither of you has been tempted to stray from your path before, but I have seen what prophecy does to men.”

“We are not men,” Ney said, straightening her back and her resolve. Her irrepressible humor crept out as she looked at her outfit, then Dia’s. “Our clothes make that quite clear. Are you very sure these are what we should be wearing?” she asked as she turned to their elfin armorsmith.

“Absolutely!” Flink insisted. “Chain mail, it’s light, it’s malleable, but it protects you from blows. And Dia – made that out of the leather of the sabre-toothed serpent she slew in the Fire Caverns. They proclaim you as warriors!”

“Warriors in bikinis,” Dia muttered.

“Hey, you slashed up a lot of that serpent. Recovering leather was tough.” Flink looked and Ney and shrugged. “And chain mail isn’t cheap.”

“The Forge is warm,” Xon said, the joke he wouldn’t quite make etching a small smile on his stoic face. “Come. Let us begin. I would not have you reach the Forge after nightfall.”

**

Before long, they could see the Forge’s unearthly glow ahead of them in the forest – more brilliant than the sunset, and yet not blinding. Dia and Ney looked at one another from time to time, checking the other’s resolve, and perhaps also their own. Neither ever faltered. Xon, as he had sworn, took them ever forward, and though Flink was nervous, he remained steadfastly at their side.

When at last they saw it, the great glowing cavern with the mystical carving overhead warning those who would heed it, Ney took a deep breath. “You two should wait here.”

“It’s dangerous,” Flink said. “We should stay with you, just in case.”

How unrealistic of Flink to believe that he would be of more help in a fight than Ney or Dia – and yet how valiant of him to want to protect them in a place that he clearly found terrifying. Ney put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be all right. Wait here for us. If we need you, we’ll call.”

If they needed help, they would be in mortal danger, and Ney knew neither she nor Dia would ever call. They were each willing to take desperate risks on their quest; putting their friends in such peril was not one of them.

Together the warrior sisters walked into the Forge. Brilliant golden light bathed them from all surfaces – glowing spheres in the ceiling, set in the walls, even in slim pathways along the floors. The light played off Ney’s chain mail, sending strange glittering reflections all around them like butterflies. No one attempted to stop them. No one spoke. Though neither of them had any clear direction after this point, Ney understood on an instinctive level that they must seek the core of the Forge.

When they reached the center, she knew, because a small, dark chair sat there, seemingly plain but actually carved deeply in the outlines of roses. In the chair sat the prophet.

“You’ve come at last,” the prophet said, without opening his eyes. “I dreamt of you both many times. I’ve drawn your faces.”

Dia, never one to hesitate, said, “Where is our mother? If you know our faces, you know that at least. Can we still save her?”

“You can,” he said.

Ney and Dia glanced at each other in mingled surprise and joy. They had hoped for this – but to be told so surely, so soon! “Where?” Dia repeated.

“Your mother sits captive in the fortress guarded by both your fathers.”

They looked at one another again, and it was a gaze from which all joy had fled. All their lives, they had heard the terrible stories about their fathers; neither had ever intended to encounter them again. Now, however, a conflict was inevitable.

The prophet said, “Go to the fortress. Tell them who you are, and why you have come. One of them will react in anger and coldness. The other will embrace you warmly and profess understanding.”

“You mean – one of our fathers will help us?” Ney could hardly believe this.

“Yes.” The prophet smiled. “The one who shows you only anger – ultimately he will free your mother, and save you both. Beware the one who shows you his smile.”

The golden lights of the Forge dimmed, only for a moment – but when they were again bathed in light, the prophet had vanished. His magic was indeed strange to behold.

Dia glanced over at her. “Do you believe him?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. We have only one path to free our mother. We have to take it.” Ney put one hand on her sword hilt, reminding herself of its presence and her own power. “Let’s break the news to Flink and Xon. Our journey has only begun.”


	8. "Happily Ever Aftering" -- the Utopia one

Every morning, the sun rises in a sky bright and clear. It never rains ‘til after sundown – an amenity Arvin is particularly proud of. One of the few albums he and Emily owned during their early married life was the original Broadway cast recording of “Camelot,” and they used to sing the songs back and forth to one another while tidying the house, or on dull car trips. So the endless days of sunlight are his tribute to her.

Not that he has designed all of this. Most of it is Rambaldi’s blueprint, Rambaldi’s will, and Arvin would not have it any other way. But as the constructor of the prophet’s designs, he’s been able to add his personal touch here and there.

For instance, he has made it known that Sydney Bristow is the Chosen One, the vessel through which all of this was accomplished. It’s impossible to say how she feels about it; merged with Rambaldi’s will as she is, she is no longer solely, wholly Sydney. But that’s still her smile, still her laugh. Her devotion to her daughter and her husband remain undiminished. The entire world worships her now, as really they should always have done.

Is this enough to make Jack happy? Even here, even now, the weight behind Jack’s eyes has not entirely lifted. The cruelties of fate – specifically, the cruelties of Irina Derevko, and the CIA, and the accursed Alliance – created scars that even an earthly paradise cannot heal. Yet he knows that Sydney is safe, now and forever, and Arvin can see that this has stilled some of the anger within his old friend.

“What else could you ask for, Jack?” Arvin asks one day.

“For the fallen to be back with us.”

Which is Jack’s way of mentioning Nadia, and Emily. Of saying that no heaven is complete without them – a truth otherwise almost too deep for words. How did Arvin ever question this man’s friendship? Or maybe the bond between them is another of Rambaldi’s greatest works, something restored from ruins to glory, like so many of the castles, and the old Roman roads.

They stand together looking out on the vineyard, waiting for yet another splendid sunset. Arvin now considers himself retired – like virtually everyone else on earth, in a world where wondrous machines perform all work, and every person is suffused with a thankful grace that has ironed out personal disagreements, political boundaries and every other tear in the harmony of the world. Some enjoy indolence; some, like Arvin, throw themselves into their passions. Different cultures have responded in different ways – there are nations where the main activity of the populace has become daily gatherings for song and dance.

Jack looks at Arvin, his expression gentler than it has been in years. “Do you ever question the cost?”

“No,” Arvin says, truthfully. “Do you?”

“I want to. And yet – ” His old friend looks as chagrined as it is possible to look, these days. “—you turned out to be right about everything.”

Instead of replying, Arvin merely smiles. He can afford to be gracious.

The last of the sunlight fades, purple and crimson on the horizon. Moisture softens the air as night comes, and the rain gently begins to fall.


	9. "Recruited" -- the Mutants one

“I’ve been approached by shadow organizations before,” Jack said to his visitor. “They’re rarely what they present themselves to be.”

“You’ve been approached. But rarely deceived – except the once, and that was no shadow organization at work. That was the KGB, or your heart, whichever you choose to blame on any given day.”

Jack stiffened. He rarely had visitors at his home, and more rarely still did they prove to be welcome, so he’d been very much on guard from the moment this man had appeared. But who had given him access to such information?

“You did, Mr. Bristow.” His visitor smiled. “My mutation is telepathy, you see.”

This was getting stranger. Jack either needed to panic or to laugh; above all, he wanted to know which, and soon. “You … claim to read minds.”

“You have a recurring nightmare in which Sydney announces you’re not her birth father. You know she’s been deceived, even in the dream, but you can’t tell her the truth because it would endanger her. So you stand there, helpless, as she walks out of your life forever.”

There was no way he could know that. No way at all. Jack had never confessed it to anyone, had never thought of it during one of McCullough’s sessions, had never written it in a journal. The only possible way for this man to have that information was for him to have read Jack’s mind.

Jack settled back into his chair; this was going to take a while. “You have my attention, Professor Xavier.”

“Forgive me for bringing up something so personal.” Xavier took tea instead of whisky, a habit Jack sometimes distrusted, but maybe such a talent required significant self-control at all times. “I wouldn’t normally employ such extreme methods of persuasion. But you would clearly have been difficult to convince any other way, and we’re short on time.”

“Time for what?”

“Nothing to do with APO – yes, I’m afraid I know about that as well. But check with your superiors tomorrow. You’ll find I have a higher security clearance than you might think.”

Jack repeated, “Time for what?”

“Time to stop Magneto.”

The news reports about mutant activity were usually blurred by sensationalism and rumor, but Jack knew the basics: Magneto was the alias of one Erik Lensherr, who had superhuman powers over metal and, apparently, a grudge against all of humanity. If some of the reports in his files about his personal history were true, Lensherr had his reasons for that grudge – none of which justified the actions that resulted from it.

“APO doesn’t get involved in this kind of thing,” Jack said. “No one at the CIA does, to the best of my knowledge. You’re probably under FBI surveillance, but beyond that – this isn’t something we’re particularly well-equipped to handle.”

Xavier smiled, almost gently. There was something deeply reassuring about the man – even the cat, wary of most strangers, had wound itself around the wheels of his chair a dozen times so far. But Jack would have distrusted that even without the revelation about telepathy, which meant that perhaps Xavier could modify minds as well as he read them.

“If I could, do you think I’d have had to convince you at all?” Xavier said, startling him. “I have two excellent reasons for coming to you, Mr. Bristow. The first relates to Magneto’s current plans – which involving assembling, and operating, a device of potentially lethal power.”

This did not sound good. “Would this be a device designed by Milo Rambaldi?”

“Indeed.” Xavier sipped his tea. “A work of genius, but in the wrong hands – ”

“Trust me, I know.” Jack had thought Arvin Sloane the worst possible person to gain the power Rambaldi promised, but Magneto would surely surpass him. “If that’s the reason you broke to me first, I’m not looking forward to the second one.”

“The second reason is because I need to rather belatedly invite your daughter to join us.” When Jack narrowed his eyes, Xavier shrugged. “Not the school, of course. But she’ll make an excellent member of the X-Men. I had hoped you might help smooth the way for that invitation … though now that I’ve met you, I realize it might not have that effect. All the same, I'm glad we've spoken about this."

Jack wondered if he had heard this correctly. He reviewed the statement. He had. “But – if the media reports are correct, the X-Men is an organization of mutants.”

“Precisely, Mr. Bristow. Her mutation is extremely subtle – it took us a while to see the patterns, and it doesn’t surprise me that you never saw them at all.”

Mutants had claws, or wings. Mutants could shoot lasers from their eyes. Mutants could fly. Sydney could not do anything so outlandish. Dryly, he said, “Please enlighten me.”

“Sydney’s mutation appears to influence probability. Essentially, through will, she is almost always able to subconsciously turn events to her advantage.”

“You’re saying that my daughter’s – mutation – is essentially … luck made real.”

“Well put.” Xavier smiled. “Think about it, Mr. Bristow. Doesn’t it make sense? More sense than it did before?”

Damnably, it did.


	10. "Flying Circle Ranch" -- the Western one

“We ought to ride into town, Pa.” Sydney spoke sensibly, but Jack noticed she had brushed out her hair and wore her prettiest gingham shirt. “Pick up some supplies. We’re mighty short on flour. And we ought to stop in on Dixon while we’re there.”

“And you could see that new schoolmaster. Mr. Vaughn, isn’t it?”

Her cheeks pinked. “Well, it’s not like we see anybody out HERE in the back of beyond.”

This ‘back of beyond’ was in fact Sydney’s pride and joy: the cattle ranch they ran together had become one of the most profitable in the territory. Jack had been swindled into buying it by his former friend Arvin Sloane, who had promptly run off with Sydney’s ma just before Jack figured out there was disease in the herd. Somehow, he’d saved the cows and kept them going; but for Sydney, only a mite of a girl with nobody else to love her, Jack thought he might have just flung himself into the gorge and let the damned ranch rot. As it was, there was hard black stone over where Jack’s love for his wife had been, and the conviction that, if he ever saw Sloane again, he’d aim his Colt right between the bastard’s eyes.

So the ranch was a burden to Jack, a duty, a reminder that his better days had already gone by. To Sydney, it was a joy. She loved every inch of their property, every bit of brush, every rock, every single damned cow.

It was a pity she didn’t love that moonstruck new foreman he’d hired; Will Tippin would’ve been a good match for her, and a fine partner out here after Jack was gone. Some schoolmaster from back east: What would he know about this life? How could he ever appreciate the rough and tumble beauty of a girl who only wore dresses when her dungarees needed mending?

No, Jack didn’t hold with this business about Mr. Vaughn. But Sydney was right about the flour.

“I suppose we might as well go,” he said, and it was both painful and joyful to him how her face lit up like a lantern after dusk.

**

They rode out just after breakfast beneath the sign for the Flying Circle Ranch, which showed their brand, a cockamamie one devised by Sloane long ago: two pointy angles, not quite wings, on either side of an O. As they did so, Jack glanced back to see Will waving goodbye after them, his hat in his hand; Sydney didn’t even notice.

Poor fellow, Jack thought. He didn’t pity Will – pity wasn’t something Jack had in abundance – but beneath that hard black stone over his heart, he remembered what it was like to love a woman more than she loved you. It was a hard row to hoe.

He and his daughter rode in peaceable silence until they reached town. It wasn’t much of a town – a few houses around one main street, which held the hotel for passengers from Tom Grace’s stagecoach, Miz Rienne’s saloon, Dixon’s dry goods store, Flinkman’s smithy and Weiss’ printing press, which was mostly used for publishing wanted posters. Jack kept an eye out, but none of the rougher gangs seemed to have a presence in town that day. In particular, that squinty-eyed Sark kid and his bandits were absent. That was a relief. Sydney could more than handle herself with a pistol, a lasso or a smart remark, but all the same, Jack preferred it when she kept out of trouble.

“Sydney!” The cook from the hotel, a sweet gal named Francie, came running out with her apron still on. “Mr. Bristow. You two coming in for lunch? I’ve got a peach pie baking that ought to be ready soon.”

“Sounds too good to pass up.” Sydney slid off her horse, Phoenix, to embrace Francie. Jack was pleased that Sydney finally had another girl to be friends with. There were so few in town –

\--though, as he looked down to the far end of the street, and the no-longer-vacant large house there, he realized a few more girls had moved in. And not the type he wanted Sydney being friends with.

Francie, following his gaze, said, “They follow the railroad men, or that’s what I hear. Seen a couple of ‘em at the dry goods store. They keep to themselves, mostly. But what a ruckus they raise at night!”

“I’ll run the errands,” Jack said. The rougher gangs probably were in town, just knocking boots at the whorehouse. Best to keep Sydney far away from all that. “Why don’t you get started on that pie? I’ll be along directly.”

Sydney hesitated a moment, before Francie said, “Mr. Vaughn’s already ordered the first slice. Somebody ought to keep him company while he’s eating all by himself.”

With that, Sydney was off like a shot. Jack inwardly cursed Mr. Vaughn’s good luck before setting out on his shopping. Dixon was out, but his wife, Diane, gave Jack a kind smile as he wandered through the shelves. Flour, sugar – and more canned peaches at the store, a rare treat he’d surprise Sydney with later. As he lifted the heavy can, studying the crude drawing on the label, he heard a woman’s voice say, “You never used to have much of a sweet tooth.”

His fingers tightened around the metal. Slowly Jack lifted his head to see his wife – Irina Derevko, whom he’d met in San Francisco when she was just a girl fresh off the boat from Russia. She’d had an embroidered headscarf over her pretty hair and an accent so thick you couldn’t cut it with a knife. He’d loved her the moment he laid eyes on her.

Now she was older. Yet still beautiful, maybe more so. And why not? She hadn’t been scrabbling to eke out a life on a ranch surrounded by tumbleweeds and damned sick cows; she’d been wining and dining with that city slicker and swindler Arvin Sloane –

\--or had she?

Irina’s dress was the bright deep green of a billiard table, cut so low in front that old memories were stirred up against his will. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in fancier curls than the matrons in town thought proper. And was she wearing paint on her face? Not much – but not all the bloom on her cheeks and lips was natural. Some of it was store-bought.

Good God. Arvin Sloane had found Irina as Jack’s wife, and left her as a whore.

He took in the gold rings on her fingers and the fine cloth of her dress and amended that slightly: Irina was the madam. But still a whore.

Any man in his position ought to feel disgusted by her, Jack knew, and yet all he could feel was anger at Arvin Sloane for leaving her like this. Damn, he was still this woman’s fool.

“Irina,” he said. Jack couldn’t come up with anything else.

“Call me Laura. That’s what I go by, these days.” Her eyes shifted down toward the floor for a moment. “And we can keep it from Sydney longer that way.”

Good God, no, Sydney could never learn about this. The truth would kill her. “Why the hell did you come back here?”

“I’ve got my reasons, Jack. I don’t expect you to believe them, much less understand them, but they’re good ones.”

“As good a reason as you had for abandoning your family?” He managed to keep his voice cool; that was one small mercy. Diane hadn’t even looked up from her store ledger.

“The exact same reason, actually.” Irina – Laura, he reminded himself, roping in his thoughts severely – still had that feverish brightness in her eyes when she wanted something so bad she could feel it in her bones. “You told me Arvin Sloane sold you a lot of rot about that ranch. Told you it was worth more than it was.”

“It’s worth something now, after twenty years of hard work. But no thanks to him.”

“No thanks to him.” The anger that creased her features startled him. “He took off to San Francisco with our girl years ago.”

She had another daughter. A daughter that wasn’t his. Jack could feel the weight of his pistol at his belt, heavier and nearer his hand than ever before. But Laura’s sheer conviction pushed him past his anger into another, stranger frame of mind.

“Listen to me, Jack. The past few years, I’ve had to do some things I wish I’d never had to turn my hand to. But I’m smarter than Sloane thinks. Stronger, too. I got myself back here, and I have enough money and influence over the local gangs to get what I want. To get what Sloane wants, so he’ll never, ever have it again.”

That sounded dangerously good. Jack knew better than to trust how it sounded. “And what’s that, Laura?”

Her eyes closed at the name, only for a moment. “Dig with me at the sunset gorge on the Flying Circle ranch, and we’ll see.”

Did she believe all Sloane’s old fairy tales about a vein of gold at the ranch? He’d claimed to have a mystical vision about it – nothing Jack actually believed in, though the sparkly dust Sloane had offered had cinched the deal. That had been iron pyrite: fool’s gold, just like Sloane’s old stories.

“You want to come out and dig in the dust?” Jack said coldly. “Fine. I’ll be there to watch you get down in the dirt. I suppose you’re used to that these days.”

Laura’s eyes revealed real pain, only for a moment, and he hated himself even more than he hated her.

She said only, “Sloane gave up on this place too soon, but I – I never did, Jack. Don’t make Sloane’s mistake.”

“I’ll be there,” he repeated. Or he meant to repeat himself. Somehow the words seemed to mean something different that time.

Sure enough – for some damned reason – they made Laura smile.


	11. "The Secret of SD-6" - the Witches & Wizards one

_You can never tell anyone about this organization. If you do – that person must face the consequences._

 _You express your love best through your silence._

Sloane had told her that when she first joined SD-6, back when she believed in the rightness of the organization and the importance of their work. Back when – admit it, Sydney said to herself – back when she still got a lift out of feeling special, even extraordinary.

But that was before Danny had been wiped. Before Sloane had revealed his true ruthlessness. Before she’d begun questioning whether she would ever return to SD-6.

Special wasn’t always better. Sometimes it was just different.

Sydney walked into the parking garage, backpack slung over her shoulders, trying hard to concentrate on the here and now, not on the memories that haunted her. (How she’d created a wall of white noise around them before she told Danny her truth. How he’d laughed, thinking at first that she had to be joking. How empty his face had been the last time she saw him, with no hint of knowledge or understanding in his eyes…. Enough, enough, no more.) If she just kept going, put one foot in front of the other for long enough, someday soon she’d feel alive again. She could be a regular, ordinary grad student. It was possible. If SD-6 had taught her nothing else, it was that anything was possible.

Then she slid into her driver’s seat, popped the backpack on the passenger-side floor, and sat up to see the red lights.

Only Sydney’s sharp reflexes saved her, allowing her to push herself out of the car before all the windows shattered. Gasping, she crouched on the concrete, glimpsed her assailants – SD-6 henchmen, no doubt – lifted her hand, and set her palm toward them. Despite the panic flowing through her, she mustered the incantation in her mind, wielded together all the power she could, and gave herself over to the force she’d been running from for months: her magic.

A sonic wave rammed through the garage, setting off car alarms and making the concrete quake. Both of her pursuers went sprawling; even powerful, experienced magic-users like them couldn’t withstand a sonic spell. While they were stunned, Sydney took off running, desperately trying to reach the outside world and safety.

SD-6 rules were operating against her now, but if she could get into a public space, those same rules would save her. No matter what Sloane had told these guys to do to her, there’s no way he’d let them use magic in front of regular people. Any single person could be fixed with a forgetting spell, but crowds couldn’t be handled so easily.

Sonic spells only held people for so long, though, and Sydney could now hear their footsteps behind her – any second now, they’d unleash a spell of their own, and she didn’t dare turn to face them down with her own magic, because the few seconds it would cost her were seconds she didn’t have.

Just at that moment of her greatest terror, a long, black car sped up seemingly out of nowhere to cut her off. Sydney skidded to a stop, saw who was in the driver’s seat, and stared.

“…Daddy?”

“Get in!”

Sydney flung herself into his car, still hardly able to believe what she was seeing. Her father backed up, then started driving directly toward her assailants – a strategy that made no sense until he lifted a long, black shape and aimed it at them.

She choked out: “Dad – you have a _wand_.”

His lips didn’t even move; he’d obviously totally internalized the incantations. Tendrils of fire licked out in front of their car – as if fueled in part by the direction in which he drove – instantly incinerating both henchmen. The green-white flames he’d used wouldn’t even leave soot for anyone else to find.

Even in a state of shock, Sydney’s quick mind never stopped working. Internalized incantations. Green-white fire, the most destructive magic flame and the most difficult to master. A wand, something that only the most experienced conjurors could create and wield.

Her father wasn’t only a magic user. He was mage-level. Expert. Perhaps even as good as Sloane.

And if that was true, nothing in her life made sense.

“You won’t understand everything tonight,” her dad said. “Don’t even try.”

“Dad – how did you – what are you --?”

“I have worked with Arvin Sloane at SD-6 for the past 11 years. That’s why I know that he’s issued an order for your elimination, despite my position there, even despite his fondness for you. I’ve prepared an exit strategy for you. Papers, false identity, illusion charms, everything you’ll need to start over.”

Sydney went back to the one thing that had hooked itself into her mind: “You work with Sloane.”

“Yes.”

“And you never told me.”

“I should think by now you would understand the need for discretion.”

Was he taunting her with what had happened to Danny? Then another, even more horrible possibility presented itself. “Dad – what they did to Danny – did you know?”

“I found out too late,” he said. “By the time I reached him, they’d already extracted his love for you.”

And most of Danny’s memories – not enough to create a dissonance others around them would notice, but enough to make sure that he had no emotional investment in her and never would again. They’d split up within minutes of her arrival at his house, the house they’d thought they might live in as man and wife, when he announced that she was “crowding” him.

Too late, her father said. He was as cold as ever, discussing the death of Danny’s love – but then, he’d never liked Danny. He’d hardly even shown that he liked her, though it turned out they were both part of the same secret game.

“SD-6 is not what you think it is,” her father continued. “They do not use the magical abilities of agents to support and defend the United States government. It is a criminal organization. Sloane is a very dangerous man. You have to use this exit strategy, Sydney. It’s your only chance.”

“Criminals.” By now she was blinking back tears. “All this time, I’ve been a criminal. And you always knew, and you never told me – but why would you? If you’re in SD-6, you’re a criminal too.”

Her father’s stricken expression was his only reply.

“How dare you,” she said, as she opened the car door. Even as her father called to her, she walked away without his exit strategy, without him.

Sydney was on her own in a hostile world with only her power and herself to sustain her. But that would just have to be enough.


	12. "The General's Homecoming" -- the first Roman Empire one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guide to the names will make things more clear:
> 
> Aeliana = Nadia  
> Gaius Varius = Jack  
> Laurina = Irina  
> Varia = Sydney  
> Aquila = Sloane  
> Zenais = Emily

Aeliana tugged impatiently at Zenais’ hand, as though Zenais were her mother instead of the head house slave – and as though Aeliana were a child instead of a marriageable young woman. But her excitement was too great for decorum. “What can you see?”

“Very little, child.” Zenais patted her shoulder, probably hoping to soothe her. “They’re standing near the fig tree. Is that worth getting me in trouble for?”

“Did he bring my sister?”

“Not this time, I think.”

Aeliana could have stomped her foot in frustration. For years, she had so longed to meet her older sister, but Varia was, of course, raised in the keeping of her father … the first husband of Aeliana’s mother, Laurina. For most of Aeliana’s life, General Gaius Varius had been a provincial governor on the northern frontier, a land far too distant for a young girl to reach. She’d been certain that, as soon as Gaius Varius returned to Rome, he would bring her sister to visit at last.

But that was not how men did things. First they spoke together as men, of whatever business it was they thought too important or secret for women to know, which sometimes seemed to Aeliana to be almost everything.

However, Laurina had raised her to understand there was no men’s secret a woman could not know, if she wished.

Aeliana dared sticking her head around the corner of the tablinium, so that she could get a glimpse of Gaius Varius for herself. Zenais hissed at her to stop, to no avail. There, amid the gardens – there he was. Tall. Older, of course, but not nearly so old as her father, or so it seemed to her: Raised in a society when men were often older than their wives, Aeliana had not imagined that this man would be closer in age to her mother. His curly hair was still mostly dark. He was strongly built, not gone to fat like some of her father’s other friends, and had a masculine jaw and features. Though he wore the senatorial toga once more, Gaius Varius was clearly a man more at home in soldier’s armor.

A few words of their conversation echoed enough for Aeliana to hear, but they did not sound interesting – more about the new emperor. Her father, like everyone else in Rome, seemed certain that Caligula would prove far more noble and just than the decrepit, corrupt Tiberius; Gaius Varius seemed to share that opinion, so far as she could tell, but more cautiously.

Her mother’s teaching made Aeliana remind herself: _Father is more cautious than anyone. But he will share in any opinion that might serve him, so long as it can. That is merely wise. Gaius Varius may be a man who says what he really thinks._

He had indeed been away from Rome _very_ long.

Her mother’s teaching then inspired her to do something that actually would have horrified her mother, had Laurina known of it yet. But Laurina was visiting at her sister’s home, and Zenais dared not hold one of her masters against her will; therefore no one could stop Aeliana from dashing into the peristylium, her pretty blue stola vivid against the green.

“Father!” she called. “Have you seen my mouse? He’s gotten away.”

“Have you captured another pet?” Her father was too fond of her to chastise her for even this breach of decorum; he – and his friend – would see this as nothing more than girlish high spirits. “You know you can never keep wild things for long.”

“He was my favorite.” Aeliana let her chin droop just a bit, but not so much that she would look sulky. There was no pet mouse. She dared to glance at Gaius Varius close-up, only for a second.

That was enough, though. Her father wrapped one arm affectionately around her shoulders. “Varius, this is my dear daughter. Aeliana, for my mother.”

“I thought her only a child." Varius’ eyes looked almost troubled as he saw her; Aeliana wondered if it was because of her likeness to her mother, his long-ago wife. She hoped not.

"The years go quickly," her father said.

"Quicker all the time," replied Varius, who then turned his conversation to her. "Hello, Aeliana."

“I’m very pleased to meet you. I hope I shall see my sister soon.”

“Very soon. She’s eager to meet you too.” Gaius Varius’s voice gentled as much when he spoke of his daughter as her father’s did when he spoke of her. That was nice to hear; Aeliana had sometimes wondered if her sister were being raised harshly on the frontier. That no longer seemed to be the case.

Aeliana politely bowed her head to Varius, then darted back into the house – meekly and modestly, as a girl should behave. Really, it was a shame only wanton women acted in the mime shows. She would have been good at it.

Zenais chastised her as firmly as she dared, and Aeliana accepted it all before going to while away some time in her room. As she had expected, Gaius Varius did not stay much longer – and her father summoned her only minutes after that.

“I’m sorry about your mouse,” he said, so gentle that Aeliana felt momentarily guilty. “But I’m glad you were able to meet Gaius Varius on your own, without your mother here. I suspect they will – not be natural around one another for some time, and you deserve to draw your own conclusions. What did you think of him?”

“He seems to be a true soldier.” There were fewer higher compliments a Roman could pay. “He speaks fondly of my sister, so I think he must be a loving father.”

“You think well of him, then.”

“Very much. Will he come to visit again?”

“No doubt, and next time, I think he’ll bring your sister.” Her father sighed. “We must get over the old awkwardness, and the sooner the better.”

“The old awkwardness” arose from the fact that Gaius Varius and Laurina had never intended to divorce; her father had withdrawn her from her marriage when he and Varius took different sides in a political struggle. Apparently Gaius Varius had taken it poorly – particularly when Laurina was then given to his former friend and mentor instead. Her mother had said only that it was her happiness Varius resented; this struck Aeliana as unlikely, because she did not think her mother especially happy. The answer lay elsewhere.

But how could it matter? That was years ago now, longer than Aeliana had been alive, and the past could not be changed. Her fresh hopes seemed more real than her mother’s dusty history.

“Varia at last.” Aeliana’s enthusiasm about meeting her sister hadn’t dimmed at all, but she now had additional interests. “Even if Gaius Varius doesn’t bring Varia right away, it would be good to see him. He could tell stories about Germania. I want to hear all about the barbarians.”

“You like him, then.”

“Very much.”

“We must get over the old awkwardness,” he said again, but more thoughtfully, as though he were considering one of his labyrinthine plans. “You may go. At dinner tonight – be careful how you speak of Gaius Varius to your mother.”

“Should I not say that I met him?”

“No. Tell her the truth; I’d think you’d know by now the dangers of doing anything else. But show no particular … enthusiasm. There will be a time for that later, I think.”

Aeliana gave him a puzzled look, which she wore all the way back to her bedroom – where she began to grin.

Her father had been saying, only a few days ago, that it was time to begin searching for a husband for her. Aeliana had known, as soon as she saw Gaius Varius, that this was a man she would enjoy as a husband; despite her youth, she was woman enough to sense that. No doubt it would not delight her mother, but her mother was married to her father, and it wasn’t as if she could have two husbands at once. And that way she could see her sister all the time.

Above all, Aeliana loved that her father actually thought it was his idea! But she’d known that idea would occur to him as soon as she ran into the courtyard, and he saw her and Gaius Varius together.

Now, if only Gaius Varius would agree --


	13. "Saturnalia" -- the second Roman Empire one

“Where is our wine?” Zenais giggled as she sat atop her master’s couch, garlands draped over her curly hair. “You’re too slow with our wine!”

The rest of the house slaves cheered her on. Saturnalia festivities had transformed them for one night from the servants of this house to the masters.

“Here is it, domina,” Laurina called. But she took her time sauntering out with the flask, wandering around the room to stare at each little knick-knack, performing such an obvious imitation of the easily distracted Briton food slave that everyone began to nudge him and laugh as he buried his face in his hands in pretend humiliation.

The rites of Saturnalia demanded that the natural order of the world be upended … but only for one week. Slaves who thought their brief time of freedom and power was to be abused were reminded forcibly of the right order of things as soon as the festival ended. Masters who took undue offense, or who failed to observe the Saturnalia, would of course ultimately be punished by the gods for their impiety.

In Laurina’s households, however, the Saturnalia had always been auspicious, she liked to think. Her servants enjoyed the novelty but did not overstep their boundaries. And Laurina used the time to make the slaves laugh – to love her, even. She wanted them to love her, though she had little love for them in return. Nobody kept secrets better than slaves who loved their mistresses, and Laurina understood better than most that secrets were the true currency of Rome.

So she poured them ample wine mixed with honey, and let them have as much time as they would to gamble during the one week it was allowed. Unlike most masters and mistresses, Laurina and Aquila actually prepared the feast meal themselves, and did a good job of it, too. While she performed her duties during the feast, Laurina imitated one slave after another, amusing them with her acting abilities while ever so wittily, by example, providing gentle corrections to slaves whose service could be improved.

Better work from her slaves, a happy and trusting household, the approval of the gods: Such benefits were well worth pretending to be a slave for one night.

 _It’s undignified_ , Gaius Varius had said. She could hear his whisper in her ear, as though she still lived in his home, as his wife. _Of course we must serve them, but we don’t need to simper like mimes._

 _It serves a purpose,_ Laurina had replied, and he’d accepted this. Though he had never joined her in her playacting, he’d let her do it and even come to be amused by her antics. After the first year, Gaius Varius joined her in the kitchen to help cook the feast and had turned out to be surprisingly handy at it. One night in the privacy of his bedroom, as the culmination of her playacting, she had even pretended to be a slave girl from one of the brothels, and how her staid husband had transformed …

But that was long ago. Laurina silenced the memories and brought her attention back to the here and now – where her not-so-staid husband, Aquila, was now pouring wine for their laughing slaves. Zenais’ pretty face glowed as Aquila leaned closer than necessary to her.

It was beneath the dignity of any Roman matron to be jealous of her husband’s slave mistress, however beloved, but some of Laurina’s friends were anyway. She was not. She merely watched, unsurprised, unaffected.

Her alliance with Aquila had never been about romance; they were not unlike many other Roman marriages in that respect. No, they were partners in a domestic and political alliance that had proved fruitful. If he found sexual happiness in a woman whose status could never rival Laurina’, that only added to the stability of their union.

And yet seeing the light in Zenais’ eyes reminded Laurina so painfully of how much more a marriage could be –

“What a din,” Aquila said as he came to his wife’s side, just as Aeliana appeared with a silly garland around her head. Laurina put her arms around her daughter as Aquila spoke. “It seems to me that Saturnalia lasts longer every December.”

“Rumor has it Caligula intends to shorten it to five days next year,” she said.

“If he even tries it, there will be rioting in the streets, mark my words. The Divine Augustus couldn’t change the Saturnalia; that means no one can.” Aquila fondly stroked his daughter’s hair. “Did we have gifts for everyone?”

“Lots of candles,” Aeliana promised. Laurina had let her help with arranging the gifts this year, a small step in learning how to run a great household. Hopefully her daughter would make a fine match soon – though it seemed the appalling idea of marrying her to Gaius Varius had died.

Aquila had never decided against it, and the foolish girl still got starry-eyed whenever Varius was spoken of, so what had changed things? Why had the plan not come to fruition? Not knowing drove Laurina mad. She had intended to work against it, but whatever had happened was not by her design.

“It’s always such a relief when the holidays are over,” Laurina said.

Perhaps she spoke too sharply, because both Aquila and Aeliana looked at her in surprise. “But, Mother, you enjoy the Saturnalia, don’t you?”

“At first. It goes on too long. I hope Caligula succeeds in cutting it short. It’s disgraceful, some of what goes on.” The massive orgies grew more brazen each year. Of course, she knew her momentary irritation had nothing to do with prudishness.

“They need more wine,” Aquila said, righting the red freedman’s cap he wore for the festivities. “They’ll be holding their aching heads until after lunchtime.”

With a small smile, Laurina said, “They’d best recover before that. I intend to eat lunch.” And she only prepared one meal during the Saturnalia. In all things, Laurina liked to believe she knew her limits.

Only Gaius Varius had ever made her question that.


	14. "The Garden" -- the third Roman Empire one

The law did not command Gaius Varius to take another wife, but the emperor had strongly suggested it – the sort of thing that set a good example. With Rome’s falling birth rate an increasing concern, men in the public eye were supposed to lead the way by dutifully marrying and procreating, preferably sons.

He had but one daughter, and while in his eyes, Varia was worth any ten of Rome’s sons, he knew Caligula did not see it so. Like Aquila, and so many other men in his situation, Gaius Varius might have found a son to adopt – some younger son of an aristocratic family unable to support the careers and ambitions of all the boys they’d produced. Had he more time to consider the matter, no doubt he could have found a likely young lad, someone Varia would enjoy teasing and coddling in equal degree.

But his rise to prominence since his return from Germania had been as sudden as it was surprising. And Aquila’s offer – distressing though it was on many levels – made good sense.

Gaius Varius sat in the garden of Aquila’s home. The walls here were painted in an unusual style; instead of the regular mythological scenes, Laurina had commissioned the artists to create the illusion of the garden going on forever – trees reaching out into the distance, complete with birds, fruit and flowers. Were it later in the day, when he had drunk sweet wine, it would be easy to believe that he was out at the country villa they had once shared. He could imagine little Varia running toward him on her sturdy toddler legs, Laurina smiling as she lifted her face to sniff the delicate fragrance of the first oranges on the branch …

Enough. That time was long past. The painting was only an illusion.

Aeliana walked out to join him. No one would ever admit that this was anything but an accident; in propriety, Gaius Varius should never have met her outside of her father’s company. Most men would have arranged the matter without bothering to meet the young girl at all; a brief look would suffice. But either Aquila knew him better than that, or Aeliana herself wanted a better examination of the old soldier her father wanted her to marry. He wouldn’t blame the girl for that. Poor young thing – pretty and fresh as an orange blossom, and being foisted off on a scarred man who, in a sense far too literal for comfort, was old enough to be her father.

As, of course, he had been married to her mother …

“Aeliana,” he said, putting as much warmth in his voice as he could muster. Probably the girl was intimidated. “How pleasant to see you.”

“And you, General.” Her smile was bold, her dark eyes dancing. Dear God, but she was like Laurina as she had been when they first met – except that Aeliana’s face displayed nothing but youth, joy and exuberance. This one was scared of nothing. Her gaze had no shadows, like those he had seen in Laurina. “Has my father left you all alone out here? How shameful.”

Gaius Varius spoke gently, but he spoke the truth. “There’s no need to play the coquette.”

It cowed her not at all. “Well, we’re not meant to speak frankly, and yet we’re meant to speak, so what are we to say? I suppose I could talk about the weather. But then I’d bore you to death. And to be bored to death by a girl after defending yourself against all those barbarians? How embarrassing.”

He laughed. Despite himself, he laughed. Aeliana had her charms. For the first time, Gaius Varius began to wonder whether accepting Aquila’s plan wouldn’t be so bad after all.

But then he remembered Laurina’s face – so long ago, and yet more real to him than anything else he had known in the past decade, save his daughter –

Aeliana’s smile faded. “You’re thinking of her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mother. You’re thinking of my mother. I always wondered what that look in your eyes meant, but now – now I know.”

Her insight and forthrightness stunned him into silence. What could he say? What else was there to be said?

To his surprise, Aeliana’s expression shifted from surprise and indignation into the deepest tenderness. “You still love her.”

“We cannot speak of this,” Gaius Varius said. He was well aware that this was not the same as saying she was wrong.

With some sadness, she smiled. “Then I suppose we’ll talk about the weather. You must be strong.”

The mixture of her insight and her teasing moved him in a way he had not known he could still be moved. Had he ever entertained the notion that a male and a female might be friends, he would have understood that they had formed a bond of friendship; as that idea was foreign to them both, they instead fell a little bit in love at that moment, while understanding immediately that he would not ask her father for her hand, and that she would no longer have it any other way.

They sat in the garden for a long while, and looked up at the clouds, and swore they felt summer was very near.


	15. "Strangelove Addiction" -- the Rock Band one

Sydney sat in her godfather’s home theater, watching the newest episode of “Behind the Music.”

The voiceover intoned, “With both sisters now a part of supergroup Strangelove Addiction, the woman studio executives had reshaped and renamed ‘Laura Bristow’ was poised to re-emerge as Irina Derevko once more. Her authentic lyrics – and personality – could finally shine through.”

The images shifted from pictures of her mother’s glammed-up, perfectly coiffed promo pictures from 1970 to later images in black and white: Mom in simple jeans and a peasant shirt at the microphone, her playing acoustic guitar at a rehearsal, and then the three of them – Sydney as a child, and both her parents – walking along the beach in L.A. Her mother looked radiant; far more surprisingly, so did her father.

“She was turning a corner,” said the man on the screen – her godfather, who was captioned STRANGELOVE ADDICTION LEADER ARVIN SLOANE. “That much was clear. But when you face your true self – you also have to face your true darkness.”

The voiceover continued, over an image of crowds in a record store: “As the ‘70s became the ‘80s, Strangelove Addiction would make its boldest artistic move yet.” The screen showed the cover of the band’s final album, which had no pronounceable name, only the symbols as a title. “And Laura Bristow’s tangled world would finally come undone – when ‘Behind the Music’ continues.”

The final shot, before commercial, was the famous newspaper photo of her mother’s car being pulled out of the river. Sydney closed her eyes.

“I think that’s enough,” said Sloane. He hit the controls to his home theater, which shut off the video and brought up the lights in the room. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Sydney said, then took back the lie. “I’m shaken up. But I knew I needed to see it, and I didn’t want to watch alone.”

Sloane leaned back in the red-velvet seats, like a teenager in a movie theater; only his posture betrayed that he had once been a rock and roll legend instead of what he was now – a prosperous vintner whose framed platinum records and “Strangelove Addiction” winery label were more advertising gimmicks than reflections of his true self. “You didn’t consider watching with your father?”

“You know how Dad is about her. He can’t bear to talk about it. Even now.”

“He’s angry. When a woman kills herself, leaves you with a child to raise – it must be an unbearable burden.” Sloane must have seen her flinch, because he continued in a more neutral vein. “Besides, your father never fit easily into the rock and roll life. Even behind the scenes, it was sometimes too much for him to take.”

Sydney had seen all the debates, from ROLLING STONE articles back when the band broke up to classic rock internet forums now, about whether her father’s heart had been broken, or whether maybe he’d never been the one who actually composed the songs that took Strangelove Addiction to four platinum albums and 12 number-one singles – whether there was some strange conspiracy at work. (Some though Arvin Sloane might have written the music as well as the lyrics – a theory, she’d noted, her godfather didn’t try hard enough to dispel.) Nobody seemed to understand that Jack Bristow was simply more at home composing classical scores for film than he’d ever been on a tour bus, or backstage at Madison Square Garden.

Nobody could believe that there was any life better than being a rock star – unless they’d tried it.

“How is he managing your success?” Sloane said.

“I think he still expects it all to blow up in my face.” Sydney sighed. Her eyes sought the large framed Peter Max portrait of Strangelove Addiction, circa 1974: Her mother defiantly clutching her famous blue guitar over her pregnant belly; Sloane in his long jacket and shades; Devlin; her aunts in long scarves and witchy clothes. Her father, of course, wasn’t pictured; that was how he’d always preferred it. “It’s as if Dad can’t bring himself to admit that the music industry doesn’t destroy everyone – because if he did, he’d have to admit we might have been able to save Mom, if we’d just known more, or done something differently.”

“That’s a shame.” Sloane seemed contemplative, as if he wanted to say more, but wouldn’t. “I wish his reaction weren’t so negative.”

“It isn’t always,” she said quietly. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the first time she’d played him some of the songs from her first album, just her and her guitar, sitting cross-legged in front of his fireplace. The small smile on her father’s face had told her more about his pride than words ever could. But was it wrong to wish for them to have moments like that more often? “It’s hard for him. He tries.”

“I’ve enjoyed watching you emerge as an artist in your own right.” His hand folded over her shoulder – a kind of touch she always found somewhat invasive, but was simply the way Sloane operated. “In this era of ironic pop and autotune, it’s fantastic to see someone emerge because of a true voice, and true lyrics. You’re more than a singer, Sydney. You’re a messenger.”

Sloane talked that way sometimes – about the “message,” as if there were something almost supernatural about it. That had been the fuel behind the phenomenal album – and, some suggested, her mother’s suicide. But Sydney wasn’t the type to get caught up in rock and roll mysticism … particularly the kind fueled by hallucinogens, which she suspected had played a big role way back when.

“I should get to APO,” she said. “I wanted to check out a few set musicians this afternoon.”

“Good luck. And tell your father to call me, sometime.” Sloane draped his arm over her shoulder the entire way out of his beachside mansion, until she once again stood in daylight.

**

“You don’t look like a drummer,” Sydney said, amused despite herself.

“I know, right? Back when I was starting out, I grew a mullet, you know, business in the front, party in the back, but now I just have to wing it on the sounds.” Marshall Flinkman – the nerdiest rock drummer Sydney had ever heard, but also one of the best – grinned at her in unabashed hope. “And also, you haven’t heard remixes until you’ve heard Flinkman remixes. I have this one mashup of AC/DC and the Ghostbusters theme song – you know, who you gonna call?”

“I know.” Sydney had to grin at him. “Can you be here on Tuesday?”

“I’m on for the album?” Marshall looked like he might pop like a firecracker in sheer delight. “Oh, thanks Miss Bristow, I mean, Sydney, or is Miss Bristow more appropriate? I, uh – ”

“Sydney is fine. Get the schedule from Mr. Vaughn, okay?”

As Marshall excitedly babbled his details to Michael Vaughn, Sydney stole a few moments to study her APO Records liaison – or, as she sometimes thought of him, her handler. He was supposed to make her life simpler, and in a lot of ways he did. But the way he made her think – all the resolutions he tempted her to break, just with that sleepy grin – that didn’t make things simpler at all.

Although Sydney didn’t buy into her father’s fatalism about the music business, she had internalized one of his unspoken rules: Don’t risk your heart there. She’d dated Danny, a cardiac surgeon, for the longest time; now, in her phone, she had the phone number and email of a handsome journalist she’d met named Will Tippin, who covered pop culture – which was close but didn’t really count as being in the music industry, and oh, those blue eyes. But neither of them affected her the way Vaughn did.

Once Marshall left, Vaughn came to her and said, “We’ve got one more waiting for you. A backup singer.”

“I’m not even sure I’m going to need one.”

“I get that. But – there’s something about her, Syd. She kind of reminds me of you. It’s just a hunch, but I think you guys ought to meet.”

“I trust your instincts,” Sydney said, and his answering grin made her melt a little inside.

As she collected herself, the backup singer walked in. There was a certain resemblance, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly why. “Hey. I’m Sydney Bristow.” She held out her hand for a shake. “A tango singer from Buenos Aires, huh?”

“Nadia Santos.” Her dark eyes were troubled, but there was something genuine about her smile. “I’ve really wanted to meet you – for a long time.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Nadia took a deep breath. “Believe me, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”


	16. "Heartbreak Hotel" -- the 1960s one

_Vienna, 1960_

 

Irina Derevko stood in her black coat – sturdy Soviet issue – as she looked in the window of the record store. Given her position within the KGB, she had money to purchase a couple of albums if she chose, and the agents who inspected her luggage on her return to Moscow would not object to a symphony by Handel, or an opera by Mozart.

Elvis Presley, however – he was revolutionary. Ideologically suspect. He stood on the poster, feet slightly splayed, suggesting the movements he was condemned for. She liked it.

Half an hour later, she sat on a bench near the Karlskirche, a paper bag from the record store in her lap. She’d tied a green scarf around her neck; she had told her handlers that this was the signal she used to let her potential new CIA source that she wanted to talk. In truth, she knew that Jack could simply tell when it was time to talk, and when it was time to walk by her in the crowd, acknowledging nothing.

As usual, she didn’t spot him until he was only a few yards down the street, and then only because a flock of pigeons considered themselves disturbed by his approach. As the drab birds swirled upward, Jack’s perpetual frown deepened. Irina attempted to contain her amusement. He’d become so stolid – no doubt, the better to conceal himself among the stones and asphalt of the city. She saw the utility of it, even envied his knack for invisibility. But the contrast with this gray man and the young one she had known in Norway during the war –

\--with the smile he often wore then, even when they were in danger, and the worry he wore now –

\--well, Irina had to laugh at it, or else she would want to weep.

“I always think we should start with some kind of code phrase,” he said as he sat beside her. “’The falcon flies at midnight.’ Some other spy-novel foolishness.”

“The green scarf is as far as I’m willing to go.” Irina smiled, hoping any suspicious observers would see it as her trying to charm a mark. “You’re looking well.”

“So are you. Except I’m telling the truth.”

Jack did look well, even if his curls were threatening to pull free from his careful combing and pomade. He had the strong jawline and build that aged gracefully, and he had kept himself trim. But he saw himself as a wreck of a man, she thought, never able to fully understand that the emotional damage didn’t show on the outside.

Instead of arguing for the veracity of her compliment, Irina said, “We’ll have to actually exchange information this time. Something – no matter how insignificant. Otherwise they’ll start asking why these meetings are really happening.”

“You’d think anybody who had studied our war records would at least guess the truth. But they never do, do they?”

“No one in espionage ever believes in love as a motivation,” she said. “Except us, and only now.”

Irina didn’t add, “only for our daughter.” Her love for Jack remained; she sensed his love for her did as well. But neither of them could admit that. It would only hurt too much.

They had met as young agents in the OSS and the NKGB, working together for the Allies in occupied Norway as tactical support for the resistance movement there. Then, the US and the USSR were on the same side, so nothing stood between them; nobody could object when two young agents spent time together in the interludes between increasingly dangerous sabotage operations. By 1944, they were trusted to handle radio surveillance in near-isolation in the far north – just the two of them, alone, in a series of small, snowbound cabins.

Her pregnancy had been unexpected, inconvenient and terrifying – and yet she and Jack never considered going into the city to seek a termination. Their coming baby was an interruption from the war, one they both needed more than they could have imagined. Irina worked and fought as tirelessly as before; sometimes she’d thought the child inside her was giving her strength, rather than tapping some away. As the war ended and Norway was liberated, they had a few happy weeks together: Finding the last traitors to the resistance movement, celebrating the birth of little Sydney, and imagining what might come next for them. They wanted to marry. Irina was not fool enough to think she could remain a Soviet comrade after that, but as their nations were allies, there was no reason to think that her move and her marriage would weigh heavily against either of them. Perhaps she could even work for the OSS as a sort of liaison.

How stupidly naïve they’d been. Not long after V-E Day, relations had soured. Irina was ordered to come home and undergo “ideological examination.” Jack, in turn, was ordered to cease his contacts with his Soviet colleague. He’d been wild with anger, raving about how they should run away (but to where?) and how stupid their superiors were (as if they would be wiser anyplace else).

Irina had done the only thing she could do. She had left him, in the night – and in the single most painful decision of her life, had left their daughter in his care. It was Sydney’s best chance at a normal existence, and Irina’s only chance to be judged ideologically sound and saved from the gulag.

The terrible silence between she and Jack had stretched longer than a decade, enforced by the Iron Curtain. Only a few months ago, upon discovering they’d both been assigned to Vienna, had she been able to parley their old connection into a lie for her superiors. She’d said she would use the old affair to ply Jack for secrets. Really, Irina wanted more than anything to hear how her daughter was, what kind of young woman she’d grown into.

It had taken weeks for her to admit, even to herself, that she’d also needed to see Jack again.

For his part, she still thought he distrusted her, and blamed her for her departure. But he always came to the meets. He always shared more about Sydney each time. And Irina had noted that he sat closer to her now – nearly as close as he had back in the old days.

“You’ll have to give me something as well,” he said.

“Balancing the scales, Jack?”

“If you want to extend this collaboration, and I assume you do, we have to justify it to my superiors as well as yours.”

He still wanted to see her. Irina felt a sort of warm glow she’d thought had vanished with her girlhood. God, what a fool love made her.

“I bought something for Sydney,” she said. “Maybe she already has it. I don’t know.”

Jack accepted the paper sack from the record store and withdrew the record. From the cover, Elvis sneered at them with curled lip. “Not this one, I don’t think. I can’t tell them apart. But when I tell her it’s from you – well. She’ll treasure it.”

Telling Sydney the true origin of the gift was generosity Irina hadn’t anticipated. It made her bold, and so she ventured a suggestion. “If we want to complete the illusion,” she said carefully, “if we want to convince our superiors that we’ve drawn the other in, there’s a very simple way to do that.”

“What intel do you want, Irina?”

“None. I want us to take a hotel room and make love.” As Jack stared at her, she shrugged. “To preserve our cover, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, and it was hard to say which was sweeter: the lie or the truth.


	17. "You Say Goodbye, and I Say Hello" -- the one where someone never died

JACK BRISTOW : 1949 – 2006  
BELOVED FATHER AND GRANDFATHER

Sydney stared at the gravestone, as she had at least one day a week for the three months it had stood here. She wondered what he would have made of the word “beloved.” Although she hoped he would have believed it, with her father, there was no knowing.

The inscription still seemed so woefully inadequate. There was no mention, for instance, of whether he had been beloved as a husband; Sydney didn’t know, in the end, any more than he had. She wondered if, at any time in his life after November 1981, her father had felt himself to be truly, unconditionally loved.

There was nothing about his service to his country, either. That was as Dad would have wished it, Sydney felt sure; by his last years, he was less a patriot, more a pragmatist. Vaughn had once joked that Jack served the United States government primarily because that was where Sydney lived. She hadn’t laughed, because she was almost certain that wasn’t actually a joke.

Dad wouldn’t have wanted much, Sydney told herself. But she still felt the lack of having said something deeply significant. The lack of the finality she needed to move on.

Her cell chimed in her hand; she lifted it to see a text from Vaughn that said, SYD, GET INTO APO, NOW. YOU NEED TO SEE THIS.

She wondered if it was a defector. A Rambaldi device. Something else entirely. Sydney felt like she had long since traveled to a land beyond surprise.

Carefully, she laid the week’s bouquet of daisies on her father’s grave, before turning back towards her car, her duty, and her life.

**

Sydney believed she was ready for anything until the moment she walked into APO’s new headquarters to see -- “Nadia?”

“Sydney.” Her sister smiled at her from the place where she sat in the middle of the rest of the crew: Dixon, Rachel, Marshall and Vaughn. Though she was almost painfully thin, and wearing unfamiliar clothes – a Tibetan chuba, from the looks of it – this was unmistakably Nadia. “It’s really me.”

“It totally is,” Marshall confirmed. “Checked the fingerprints, retinas, brainwaves, you name it. Even asked her about the op tech I gave her for that first mission she did with us.”

“Lipstick of death,” Nadia said, and Marshall pointed at her with each hand, mouthing the words, _You see_?

“I don’t understand.” Sydney felt herself being torn in two, between hope and disbelief, between suspicion and joy. “How is this possible?”

“How do you think?” Vaughn said, smiling gently.

But he left it for Nadia to explain. She said only one word: “Jack.”

**

It turned out that her father had found Nadia wounded and bleeding in Sloane’s home. He had done for her a version of what he had done for Vaughn: Smuggled her away to recover in secrecy and safety, while presenting a fake body for funeral and cremation purposes.

“I wonder where he found all those fake bodies,” Marshall mused. “On the other hand, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Let’s just … not look at that too carefully,” Dixon said. “The point is, we have Agent Santos back with us.”

Sydney, who sat next to her sister with her arms wrapped around her, said, “I can’t believe Dad managed to do this.” If her father were alive, would she be angry at him for the lie? Probably. But now it seemed to be a final gift from beyond the grave – Jack’s way of telling her she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.

“I can’t believe you didn’t guess,” Nadia said. “After what he did with Vaughn.”

Vaughn ventured, “Maybe Jack thought you did guess. Or that you would, given time.”

“He must have. If he hadn’t, he would have told me after he was – he would have told me in Mongolia.” As tortured as their final words had been, Dad had clearly been trying to say the most important things; if he hadn’t believed that Sydney knew about Nadia, he would have told her that too.

Or maybe he simply knew it would be like this: That one day, without his having to take any further steps, Nadia would walk back into Sydney’s life and his purpose would be revealed. Maybe he didn’t need to take any credit. Maybe he just needed to know he’d gotten the job done.

**

Next week, Sydney returned to her father’s grave, this time with Nadia. Two words had been added to his gravestone at Nadia’s suggestion: TRUSTED FRIEND.

“It’s still not enough,” Sydney said as she set the daisies down at the foot of the stone.

“It’s more than enough.” Nadia touched her arm. “I think ‘beloved father’ is all he ever needed to know.”

Finally, Sydney understood that her sister was right.


	18. "Byzantine" -- the Byzantine Empire one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Irene's identities should be fairly obvious, but as Alias has an Anna, I should mention that _this_ Anna is the closest useful name for Sydney Anne Bristow.
> 
> ***

_  
Constantinople, 969 AD_

 

The imperial guard of Nicephorous the Second was, at its core, as vigilant and dedicated as that of any other Byzantine emperor – which is to say, the average man would as soon have stabbed Nicephorous as saved him, given a few coins or the promise of greater power under new rule.

However, that was the guard at its core. The guard at its head was something else entirely. John held no great love for the emperor, but he took his duty seriously. In the sumptuous, sensual court, John was an oddity – a man who preferred plain cloth to embroidery, water to wine, and security to power. Though he had earned his position, and some wealth, in the wars against the Rus, John never attempted to leverage that into greater personal gain. He possessed an uncanny ability to hear whispers, make deductions, and look into the very heart of men to see their betrayals before they occurred. Many had tried to buy him, but none had succeeded. Nobody much cared for him, but everyone besides Nicephorous wished they could command his omniscient protection – one of the few firm stones in the ever-shifting sands of conspiracy in Constantinople. Those who did not know him well thought him humorless, and there were few who knew him well.

One of the few who did was his wife.

How such a gray, dull man as John had won the hand of a woman like Irene was one of the court’s minor mysteries. Her mother had been Rus, a spoil of war, but no man would have spurned her for this heritage – not with her shining auburn hair, statuesque height and beautiful features. Most claimed that her father’s choice to betroth her to John was a sign of some vast plot, a conspiracy in which this strange match had to play a part. Some others thought her father had simply wanted to keep her alive amid the court intrigues; being married to John was the strongest insurance of that.

But – confounding as it was – none could deny that the match had proved to be a passionate one.

A few ambitious souls had thought to manipulate John’s loyalties by threatening his wife. At first people believed that John was murdering anyone who tried. By now, most were aware that Irene murdered them herself, not troubling her husband with such trifles.

None were aware of Irene’s own power, not even John, until she chose to tell him.

The October day was a cool one, the breezes from the Golden Horn chilly and the skies gray. John disliked such weather, because one of his small secret pleasures was watching the sunlight glint on the mosaics of Saint Sophia. But he went to pray anyway – less out of piety and more out of custom – shouldering his way through the hundreds of muddy late-season pilgrims to find a place. He avoided any usual spot; habits were the breeding ground of traps.

He was found quickly, but did not mind, because any chance to see Irene during the day was a rare pleasure.

“Theophano doesn’t require you today?” he said, instead of amen, as he rose from his knees.

“She has other matters to attend to,” Irene said of the empress. “Walk with me.”

They made their way to the marketplace, side by side. John’s brocade mantle, though clearly that of a member of the aristocracy, was old and not particularly colorful; on his own, he thought, he would have made little impression. But Irene might have been mistaken for the Empress, were Theophano half so beautiful. Her embroidered camisa, hammered silver half-moon earrings and jeweled hat drew attention; it was her face that kept it. John knew most of those watching took him for her guard rather than her husband, and did not mind.

Once they were so thick into the crowd that the noise around them would have kept anyone from overhearing, John said, “Tell me.”

“Theophano has taken Anna to be one of her ladies in waiting.”

“Anna?” Impossible. Their daughter was not yet 10; the ladies of the court were meant to be marriageable girls. The horror of losing his beloved daughter to another household was secondary to his fear at the thought of Anna exposed to court intrigues at such a young age. Though he and Irene had quietly been schooling her, preparing her to make her way in this treacherous world, Anna was by no means ready.

Distressed though John was for his daughter, his analytical mind grasped the problem quickly: Theophano was deviating from normal behavior. She would not do so without a purpose in mind. “The empress wants to control us. Why, when we support her husband and therefore her position?”

“She has taken John Tzimiskes as a lover.”

The fact that the empress had a lover was hardly shocking; shock was hard to come by in Byzantium. But Tzimiskes – that was dangerous. He was a provincial upstart, but a brilliant general who had earned the love of the armies. Despite this – or because of it – Nicephorous had deprived Tzimiskes of his command. An affair between this man and Theophano would be no mere sexual folly; it could only be a power play, one building toward another attempt on the emperor’s life.

“We must warn Nicephorous immediately,” John said.

Irene laid one hand on his arm. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

He stared at his wife. “When did you begin giving me orders? Or believing that I would permit the emperor to come to harm?”

“When letting the emperor die became the best way to save our daughter.”

Fear for little Anna churned his guts, but John remained firm. “The best way to do that is to end this threat before it begins.”

“That is beyond our power. Think of how many generals the emperor has alienated in the past few years. I believe they have already pledged their loyalty to Tzimiskes.”

No mere assassination attempt, this – but a full-fledged coup. Should it fail, the repercussions would go beyond the usual executions, blindings and chopping off of noses for the participants. Everyone would be questioned. Everyone would be suspect.

And, without a word, Theophano had made it clear that if she went down, Anna would go with her.

John thought of the blinding tools – the metal rods to be heated white-hot before being plunged into the eyes – and shuddered.

“So, the coup must succeed,” he said. The knowledge was no less bitter for being necessary. “I will reach out to some of the generals.” Isaac Brachamios was a likely target, Michael Bourtzes another. If he took the risk of coming to them first, they would be more likely to trust his involvement.

“I will make our support clear to Theophano,” Irene said. “And I will find a way to meet with the Patriarch.”

“The Patriarch? Surely he is not involved.”

“He isn’t. And he will be horrified afterward. Only he can crown Tzimiskes emperor – and he will have to do it, so somebody else will have to take the blame. That must be Theophano. I intend to make the Patriarch suspicious of her now, the better to separate her from the court later. Then Anna will be safely returned to us.”

The brilliance of his wife’s intrigue won John’s admiration, but also his surprise. Though, the more he thought about it, the less surprised he was. “Tell me, Irene – how much of our lives do you design?”

“More than I let you see. But only as much as is needed. I would not want the empress’ throne.” A small smile played upon her full mouth. “It never lasts very long.”

“And we do.”

“Yes.”

Even though they were in public, John decided to lean close to his wife. In defiance of convention, they kissed – a kind of pledge for the emperor’s death, and their daughter’s survival.


	19. "Nice Day for a White Wedding" - the one where someone died and never came back

Unlike most brides, Lauren Reed spent much of her wedding day alone. The ceremony was to be intimate and tasteful, requiring little last-minute preparation. She had few friends, and the maid of honor would not be able to arrive until the last minute.

As for the mother of the bride, one of the leaders of the Covenant in the United States, one of the people who had ordered Sydney’s death – she now rested in the back garden, her rose-pink suit now messy with blood. Jack tracked some of it inside as he walked upstairs, toward Lauren’s room, but didn’t much care. Olivia Reed’s blood wouldn’t identify him. The carnage was the closest thing to his fingerprint that the authorities would ever find.

He walked into the easternmost bedroom without knocking, to see Lauren sitting on the bed in a half-slip and bra, wiping Nair off her legs.

She stared at him. She didn’t scream. In her eyes, Jack saw recognition – and there was no way she would recognize him, if she were the person she’d claimed to be.

“I never knew if you were party to what happened to my daughter,” he said, as he leveled the gun again. “Not until now.”

Lauren’s lips tightened, but she still didn’t panic. Under different circumstances, he might have admired that kind of nerve. “Are you striking back at me because you think you’re actually morally superior to the Covenant?” she said. “Or because you think I had something to do with Sydney’s death? Do you even know?”

“No, I don’t know. I also don’t care.” Jack shot her twice through the head, then wiped down the gun and dropped it for the police to find.

The newspapers tomorrow would be full of it, no doubt. Senator’s wife and daughter savagely murdered on the eve of the big wedding. As the senator himself remained alive and well, conspiracy theories would probably be few, and suspicion would instead fall on some sort of home invasion. Nobody would realize he and Irina had just put a stop to one of the most vile conspiracies of all.

He walked down the driveway and got into the car, where Irina waited behind the driver’s seat. “Did she know?” she said.

“Yes.”

Irina asked nothing else. She simply took them out of there, driving at regular speed so as to attract no particular attention.

Jack had not expected to feel relief after doing this; destroying Sydney’s killers wouldn’t bring her back. He had chased after this for more than a year now, following every lead, going down so many blind alleys. For a brief time, he’d actually believed Sydney might be alive – might be under compulsion to live as the Covenant operative Julia Thorne – but that false hope had been only the prelude to his worst pain. Because it turned out that Sydney hadn’t died in the fire: She’d been kidnapped. Julia Thorne was the identity the Covenant had prepared for her. But their interrogation techniques had been too severe for her. She had died in a cell, far from home, all alone.

Sometimes he thought about how scared Sydney must have been. He always tried not to think of it before, or of the fact that he’d had a chance to save her and failed. When he thought of that, he came dangerously close to putting his gun to his head.

He’d held back as long as the Covenant remained to be destroyed. Now, though –

“Jack?” Irina said. “Where will you go?”

“It hardly matters.”

“Unless you go to the wrong place. Then, it might.”

He shrugged. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“Not back to the CIA?”

“For a brief time, so as not to attract any suspicion.” Jack almost didn’t care if he were arrested for the Reed murders, but he didn’t want to tip anyone off about Irina. “But I’ve been talking about resigning for a while now. When I hand my letter in to Dixon in a couple of weeks, he’ll be expecting it.”

“After that?” When he shrugged again, Irina continued, “Then I’d like to offer you a job.”

After a long pause, he replied, “This is not an appropriate time for jokes.”

“I’m serious, Jack. Come work for me.”

“You cross lines I’m not comfortable with.”

“You say this in the hour after you murdered a bride on her wedding day.”

“I murdered my daughter’s killer before she could complete her triumph at Sydney’s expense. If you think that means I now have no limits on my actions, you’re mistaken.”

Irina breathed out, a sound that could have been frustration. Her large sunglasses hid her expression. “If you won’t work for me, work with me.”

“On what?”

He didn’t know what answer he expected, but certainly not the one she gave: “I want you to steal something from Arvin Sloane. Something he wants more than anything. Something he can never get back.”

“And what’s that?”

“A daughter.”

“What do you – ”

“In 1981, the KGB felt that I was no longer getting viable intel from you. They ordered me to seduce Arvin Sloane and kill you, the better to eventually move in as his wife. I didn’t kill you – obviously. That’s why I was extracted. But I did seduce Sloane. And the next year I gave birth to his child.”

The shock of it numbed Jack to any real emotional reaction. His brain supplied only the thought, _I’m having a hell of a day._

“I did it to buy you time,” Irina continued, never looking away from the road. “To buy myself time, too. The child – a girl, Nadia – she’s been raised far away from me. I’m finally free to search for her. With your help, I think I could find her. When we find her, we’ll explain that I’m her mother, and you’re her father. There are methods we could use to mask her DNA, so that even if she or Sloane checks later, they’ll believe our story.”

“I lost the only daughter I’ll ever had,” he said. “I’m not interested in pretending otherwise.”

“Then you’re essentially delivering her to Sloane. You’re ensuring he’ll have the one thing that was robbed from us forever.”

“I have very little love left for Arvin Sloane. But – I don’t – I don’t see why I should do to him what the Covenant did to us.” Especially as it would involve staying alive. Jack wasn’t convinced staying alive was worth the trouble. Spite certainly wasn’t.

Irina reached for the gear shift, and only then did Jack realize she was shaking. For the first time, he realized she had a child left. A stolen child, much as Sydney had been stolen from him. But Irina could still get her last daughter back.

Funny, that she hadn’t asked him to do this for her. It was the one reason that could still motivate him. Then again, there was no reason for her to have expected that; it came as a surprise to Jack himself.

“We’ll find her,” he said. “After that – forget about after. Let’s just find her.”

Irina’s hand briefly closed over his. It was the closest they would ever come again to admitting they loved each other, and the closest thing he had to a reason to live.


	20. "The Other You and the Other Me" -- the Dystopian Future one

_2030  
_

The sky turned dark red a couple years ago. Scientists can’t come up with an explanation; religious fanatics say it’s a sign of God’s displeasure with a sinful world, and proof that the end is nigh.

In this case, Stephen knows that the fanatics are closer to the truth. They might be wrong about the motive – God has zero to do with this – but they’re right about the outcome.

Unless Isabelle can save them, and he’s starting to believe she can.

He stands at the high window of the Keep, looking at the teeming megalopolis below. In the past decade, the waves of panicked immigration from the coasts have turned this once ordinary city into the traffic-snarled, smog-choked hub of a population of nearly 40 million. The CIA is the military is the police force is the Department of Housing: The government’s authority has become absolute just as its ability has become negligible. Not for the first time, Stephen wonders what his father would make of this. Despite the way it burns to admit it, he’s glad Dad never lived to see what’s become of this world. What became of Robin.

And he knows for damn sure that his dad would have told him to distrust the works of Milo Rambaldi.

“Look,” Isabelle says, and he turns from the window to obey her. She leans over the table, which is laden with yellowing manuscripts, a jeweled box with her grandmother’s name etched upon it, and an elaborate clock. Her silky dark hair hangs loose from its knot, and he longs to brush it back. He never will. “This is the fourth confirmation, Stephen. Two separate histories – linked, equal, but mutually exclusive.”

He believed her after the second confirmation. He wants to send her in search of even more. But after the latest landslides and methane escapes, it’s become obvious that there’s no more time to research. It’s time to act.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says.

“That means you think I should go.”

“And more, besides.”

“I know.” Isabelle gives him that look that melts his heart. They didn’t hook up at first for mundane reasons – he’s more than a decade older than her, this life is rough, so on and so forth. Then he lost Robin, and was in no mood to lend out his broken heart for more damage. For the past year, they’ve both known their time was too limited. Their might-have-been is more meaningful than any real relationship he’s ever had.

“You’ll die,” he says.

“And yet the other timeline will unfold. So who knows? We might meet again.”

“Rambaldi’s notes aren’t that detailed. And besides – I don’t care what happens to some theoretical other you. I care about you.”

“I know that what I’m going to isn’t – ideal.” Her voice breaks on the last word, as well it might. “But somebody replaced the dead child. Somebody performed those actions in the other timeline – the timeline in which Rambaldi’s works were destroyed, and Arvin Sloane was stopped, and the world was saved. That’s the world that needs to come into being, Stephen. You and I – the world we’ve known – that’s only the legend.”

Isabelle stands and walks to the far edge of the room, where the final device awaits: the Flame. Stephen’s eyes grow wide as he realizes what’s happening. “Wait. You’re going to do this now?”

“Should we wait to watch millions more die of the plagues?” Isabelle’s dark eyes shine with a different kind of flame than he’s ever in her before. “I suppose I could – say goodbye to people, but there’s only Jack, and he’ll never understand. He sees everything in absolutes, just like Mom did.”

She so rarely speaks of her mother now. The destruction of her home was that terrible, that scarring.

“I only have to say goodbye to one person,” she continues, taking one step toward him. “And he’s here.”

For the first time, the last time, the only time, Stephen crosses the room, takes her in his arms and kisses her. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears like the waves in a seashell. If she’s right – if the Flame works as it is supposed to, if Milo Rambaldi was a true prophet – then this is, in a way, his death too.

But it doesn’t scare him. Stephen already knows that this world, without her, is empty. Let it fall.

“Where do you go?” he says, surprised to hear that his voice is steady.

“To be captured as a spy. The information I’ll feed into their systems in advance will link me with the dead child. Mom will believe she’s found her sister – that I’m Nadia Santos.”

 _And you’ll suffer torture and kidnap,_ he thought. _You’ll endure a coma for months. You’ll awaken only to die in front of Arvin Sloane._

If she did all that, then the destruction of their planet might never come to pass.

“It’ll be interesting, knowing my mother as a young woman. As her equal. And meeting my grandfather – I heard so much about him.” She gave Stephen a sidelong look, almost flirtatious now; her bravado was like nothing he’d ever seen. “And maybe I’ll meet you as a little boy.”

“Isabelle – I hope the other you and the other me have better luck.”

“Me too, Stephen,” she said, even as she reached for the Flame.


	21. "Tenets of Faith" -- the Tudor England one

_January 1553_

Jack Bristow had thought his life as solid and secure as his house. His estate was not especially grand – luckily for Jack's purse if not his pride, the king would never stop here on progress – but he took pleasure in his home. The broad fireplaces and thick walls kept him, his wife and their child warm in winter. The beds were hung with canopies, like shields above Irene and little Anne. In a rare moment of fancy for him, Jack had once called this place his fortress.

Then came the night when he leaned upon an uneven bit of plastering on the wall of a stairwell he rarely used – and a hidden panel swung open.

There, kneeling in prayer, rosaries clutched in their hands, were his servants. His daughter. And the person he knew must have instigated all of this, his wife.

Jack said nothing. The horror in their expressions choked off any words of remonstrance or rage; it shook him to think of his own family so terrified of him.

Not Anne – she had smiled, happy to see her father – but then her smile had dimmed as she saw her mother's pale, drawn face. Would his own daughter learn to be afraid of him? Would she be condemned someday, because of what her mother taught her in a secret papist chapel?

These questions tore at him like the winter wind as he paced his own grounds, staring back at the house that was not truly his own. Jack could not go inside and pretend nothing had happened; less still could he report Irene, as duty to the king commanded. Everyone knew that papists conspired against King Edward, that they sought to put Mary on the throne and restore Catholicism. How could Jack not respond to a threat against the crown?

And yet he knew he would never tell.

The night darkness changed, moved, took the form of his wife. Irene's dark cloak hid her in the shadows but stood out against the snow as she came closer. Neither of them spoke until she was directly in front of him, close enough to touch.

"This is treason," Jack said.

"This is faith," Irene replied.

"You've taught our daughter superstitious nonsense that can only endanger her."

Irene smiled sadly. "You are neither Protestant nor Catholic, Jack. You believe only in safety, and home, and our little girl."

"You've always known that about me. Whereas I have apparently never known anything about you. My own wife."

"Know that I love you."

Irene's fingers brushed against Jack's cheek. His heart leapt at the touch, as though he had been the one hoping for forgiveness. If only he loved her less.

Brusquely, he said, "Do you plot against the king?"

Irene lifted her head. "The king is young and sickly. Mary could yet bear children."

"That is no answer."

"Then ask no questions."

Defeated, Jack clutched his wife close and kissed her. This, too, was faith, if she would but see it.


	22. "Shades of Grey" -- the Criminals one

Parking garages were much the same the world over. Gray, impersonal, confusing, vaguely threatening: No wonder Jack Bristow felt at home in them.

And they were always an appropriate setting for his meetings with Irina Derevko.

She walked boldly from the elevator wearing a white winter coat and a red scarf around her neck that could easily serve as a target, or a garrote. She felt confident, or wanted him to think she did. He waited in the shadows for her to see him, then to acknowledge that she had seen him. “Jack.”

“Irina. You’re looking well.”

“You aren’t.” She was honest to the point of brutality … when it suited her. He was all too familiar with how well she could lie when that suited her in turn. “I heard about Marrakech. An operation that sloppy isn’t like you.”

The operation had been less sloppy than deliberately sabotaged, by an operative Jack wouldn’t work with again. Nobody else would be working with him again either; a couple of well-placed shots had ensured that. “You didn’t come here to discuss Marrakech. This is your meet, on my time. What is it?”

“When you snap at me, you hope that you sound – official. Cold. But you only reveal how vulnerable you are.”

That vulnerability worked both ways. Jack took what comfort he could in that.

Irina stared slightly past him toward the thin sliver of night sky this level of the parking garage permitted. Her voice remained even as she said, “Sometimes – if intel is needed badly enough – governments will do almost anything to get it. They’ll provide full pardons. New identities. New lives. Ways to start over.”

“Depends on the intel.”

“And on whether the operative in question wants to start over.”

“Why would I believe anything you say to me?”

Her old betrayal crackled between them for a moment, exposing them for what they were – a severed wire with the power still flowing, always trying to complete the connection.

Irina said, “I did what I thought was right. And I’m doing that now. Aren’t you ready to do the same?”

And he was. He was. He had been for a long time. Jack closed his eyes.

She stepped closer – he could hear that, feel it – and she said, “Come in, Jack. Start over, with me.”

When he opened his eyes again, Irina stood directly in front of him, between them only the veil of their tortured history. He’d been an angry, impoverished teenager shunted from foster house to foster house too much to ever establish the kind of school records that would get him a scholarship to college – his only chance of going. At the time, he thought he’d fallen into crime after meeting Arvin Sloane, never realizing that he had been deliberately chosen.

Arvin had chosen well. Jack’s ruthlessness fueled him in his work; his cool, calculating mind kept that ruthlessness from ruining him. Together they’d built a syndicate known and feared on five continents. And when Irina had taken her place in the organization – in his bed, in his life – Jack had thought he could want nothing more.

But after years together, and a child, Irina had been exposed as an Interpol agent. She fled just in time to prevent Arvin from having her killed.

For decades more, Jack had hated her. Not as much as he hated Arvin for finally turning himself in and going legit to placate Emily – but it was hate all the same. Then, in the turbulent intelligence situation of the past few years, Interpol had come to need his help. As far as Jack was concerned, Interpol, and the turncoat they’d sent to persuade him, could go fuck themselves. But then Sydney needed Interpol’s help in return – and one cooperation became another –

\--and now here they were. Tangled up in each other, both desperate to break free and desperate to tie the knots tighter.

“Jack,” Irina said softly. “I’ll never be able to get you a better deal than this. It’s a free pass. A real new beginning. And we won’t have to live these lies any more.”

Even Jack’s considerable defenses weren’t entirely equal to this. “It wouldn’t work. No matter how badly a – how inviting the idea of a new beginning might be – ”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Irina, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“Sydney,” she said, and the heaviness of it settled over them like a shroud.

Sydney had been raised in his world from the beginning. She reveled in the violence, the deception – the adrenalin of it all. Jack had chosen a life of crime, but he’d never experienced the sheer exhilaration that his daughter did.

Their daughter stubbornly saw everything in black and white, and she preferred the blackness. Jack and Irina had each tried, in their ways, to convince her about the shades of gray that really defined the lives they led. But she would never believe. Never change. And never accept her father’s change.

Jack would never leave Sydney, not even for Irina.

Irina said, “I should have taken her with me.”

“I would’ve killed you.”

“You would have tried.”

There were times he himself had wondered if Sydney wouldn’t have been better off with her mother. That more than the old betrayal was why he still hated Irina, despite loving her, and always would.


End file.
